Bad Monday, Worst Morning
by Adenosine
Summary: A typical day in the lab turns into a desperate fight for survival for Umbrella's finest when one of their most dangerous experiments escapes. NOT SLASH.
1. Problems

**So this simple story was made for the sole purpose of writing about some of my favorite blonds. Specifically Wesker, before he went completely round the bend à la his RE5 incarnation. Don't expect much deviation from the plot given in the summary. **

**Warning: Mildly AUish, if only because when rough drafting this I overlooked some details and it would be too much of a hassle to fix them now; hopefully this story doesn't conflict _too_ much with established history. Also, first chapter's pretty slow, so I'm posting the second one too to pick things up a bit.**

**Matured for language and gore.**

**None of these characters are mine!**

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><p><em>September 21th, 1987<em>

Wesker loathed mornings with every fiber of his being.

He was a night owl; his frequent bouts of insomnia allowed for nothing else. Falling asleep at night had become such a hassle that he had begun to view the rising sun as his mortal enemy, the lightening sky as a personal insult. The only thing that could coax him from the covers, besides his blaring alarm, was an over-sized cup of coffee, thoroughly supersaturated with sugar and caffeine for maximum energizing capabilities.

Of course, he rarely even _saw_ the sun these days. Working alongside William Birkin had forced Wesker to adopt the erratic man's hours as his own, and Birkin literally never slept. He physically passed out eventually, yes, but succumbing to sleep of his own volition was not a lifestyle choice he supported. Wesker was not quite so fanatical in his habits, had adopted them only begrudgingly, and as such usually made the effort to leave the lab at least once in a blue moon for rest. Of course, this arrangement had rather skewered his perception of mornings in general; it was difficult to hate something that one was barely aware of.

He still put in a good effort towards that end, however. If nothing else, few other researchers put in time during the early morning hours, leaving the labs understaffed and silent. Not necessarily a bad thing, by any means, but it did mean that Wesker was often left tackling the grunt work of their research during that time. Birkin wasn't about to sully his hands on such menial tasks, after all, and as much as Wesker hated being the one to do it, _someone_ had to take up the slack if they were to get any shit done.

This attitude had led to his current preoccupation, namely, culture cultivation. Wesker had seated himself at his usual lab bench, looking over several tissue cultures as he hunkered down for what would almost inevitably be another long, drawn out day of glaring through a microscope and trying to hail Birkin on the phone. He'd just returned from a brief sojourn at home, where he'd managed to catch three blissful—and entirely inadequate—hours of much-needed sleep. Perpetual fatigue was a tiresome consequence of the job, and though it had done wonders for defeating his insomnia, Wesker was uncertain as to whether he should condemn or embrace it. Right now he was banking on the former; his mind was running so sluggishly he barely had the energy to do much more than slide the brightly colored tissue tubes around the bottom rack of the incubator.

He yawned, and glanced at the clock as one hand found his mug of warm coffee. 7:48. 7:48 _AM_, he knew, since the sun had been ascending with Wesker as he'd driven up to the lab. There wasn't much activity going on around him; save for the gentle hum of the incubators and a whirling centrifuge somewhere behind him, the lab was pretty dead. No surprise there, they probably wouldn't be seeing any activity from that quarter until 9 o'clock at least.

So naturally he was surprised when a voice suddenly spoke up, startling his heart into overdrive for a few distressed beats.

"Mondays are the worst, eh?"

Wesker looked up from his microscope slowly, letting none of the surprise he felt show on his face. Standing across the black topped bench from him was a fellow researcher, a decade his senior, but, like most employees there, lower in rank. He was a man utterly ordinary in appearance, from his close-cropped, graying black hair to his average height and unremarkable features. Nonetheless, Wesker recognized him as one Dr. Creed, a sad little family man who'd been recruited by Umbrella back in '83, following the untimely demise of his young son—a car accident, if Wesker was not mistaken. Of course, the company had purposely scouted him out while he was at his most vulnerable; it made it easier for them to convince him to take on what might have sounded like an unsavory job. The doctor had been given the task of supervising the care of Umbrella's test subjects ever since, and in the four years that he'd been working there, he'd never said a word to Wesker. Hadn't, if Wesker remembered correctly, so much as even acknowledged his presence before.

Of course, that hadn't made Wesker any less inclined to study his personal records. As far as Wesker was concerned, in a place so full of treachery and theft as Umbrella, one always had to know as much about the other employees as possible, _especially_ those that shared his lab space. Creed was low on his list of threats, so he'd really only taken the time to study his background information. But as the man looked at him now with bloodshot eyes, Wesker made a mental note to reopen his file.

In the meantime, though, he had to figure out why the man was even talking to him—and it had to be him, Wesker knew, because there was no one else in the lab at present. Perhaps the comment was an opening to a much larger conversation, the type that led to the asking for a favor or some other equally repugnant request. If that was the case, the man was better off shutting his trap and leaving now. Wesker was not in the business of doing anyone favors. Or maybe he was simply trying to create some sort of rapport with the young blond—Wesker was, after all, his superior. If that was the case, though, he was destined for failure. Wesker was not about to waste his time chatting with anyone, especially feeble-minded subordinates.

As Wesker mulled over the subtext beneath those five little words, his pale brows rising steadily above the level of his sunglasses, Dr. Creed simply masked a yawn behind the back of his hand and headed off towards the back rooms. Wesker watched him go, relaxing his guard only when the metal door slid shut behind the older man. He directed a half-hearted sneer in the man's direction for wasting his time, then turned back to the cells pictured in his scope.

Suspended in the pink growth media, the infected spindle-shaped cells were behaving...like cells. Wesker rubbed at his eyes, disappointed. The T-virus exhibited much more exciting properties on the macroscopic scale; on the microscopic level, things were looking pretty normal, as far as he was concerned. But then again, he wasn't the virologist. He didn't like staring at tiny cells all day, and couldn't study them indefinitely like William could. Normally he wouldn't even bother with the things, except for some reason Birkin had insisted on it; he'd probably overworked himself again trying to juggle a number of different T strains in their never-ending struggle to develop the perfect bioweapon.

He leaned away from the scope and moved the cells back into the incubator; William could and probably would double-check them later, but so far they weren't doing anything surprising. They certainly weren't revealing the secrets behind reanimation, unless reanimated cells looked and acted identically to healthy cells. That was obviously incorrect, however, since the reanimated specimens they had in the vivarium displayed the rather obvious characteristics of decomposition. _Perhaps the infection wasn't successful_, Wesker mused, then shook his head absently. _No, T is much too virulent for that to be possible. But then…what is it doing?_

Well, there was really only one person who could answer that.

With a soft groan, he stood and tilted his head back, listening as the vertebra in his neck cracked pleasantly. He walked over to the nearest wall-mounted phone and lifted the receiver, waiting for a dial tone before balancing it in the crook of his shoulder. He dialed in the familiar extension by memory, and then waited as the phone rang.

And rang.

And rang.

He ground his teeth mercilessly as frustration flared, and he set the receiver down long enough to retrieve his cup of coffee and take a generous swig. Wesker was admittedly not the most patient of men, and with William being as unreliable as he was, Wesker found himself often fighting to keep his head. One would think Birkin could answer the phone promptly just _once_ in his life...hell, it wasn't even eight yet. What could the young scientist have possibly engrossed himself in already?

A lot, actually, Wesker supposed, especially if he'd been there throughout the night. Still, that knowledge did nothing to soothe his temper as the phone continued to go unanswered.

Wesker was counting out the seventeenth ring when William finally picked up the other line, three floors above. _I could have walked up there myself by now_. "Yeee-_esss_?" Birkin drawled distractedly into the receiver, clearly irritated at the disruption.

"William, the cultures aren't showing any change," Wesker reported with the barest hint of exasperation. "The cells look fine."

"Ah-hmm." Birkin breathed out noisily. "Well, you _did_ infect them, right?"

Wesker clenched his jaw angrily. He did not appreciate the implication that he might have dropped the ball. "Of course," he snapped. He'd practically drowned the damn things in T.

"Tch. Well, we ought to keep observing them nonetheless, but maybe we should roll back to the previous version for the next set. I might've spliced in the RNA incorrectly, I don't know," he muttered contemplatively. "Guess I'll have to go sequence it again and check." He sighed, clearly unexcited about the prospect, even though it was extremely unlikely that he'd be the one actually performing the tedious procedure. "Well, the neural cultures I've got going aren't faring much better, if that's any consolation."

"Not really. I'm rather hoping for a _successful_ conclusion to this project, individual victories aside."

"Oh, no," Birkin replied with a dismissive laugh. "You always kept track of that sort of thing before, and I doubt that you've stopped doing it now just because Marcus paired us up on this. You aren't the best team player, you know."

All too true, but Wesker would be remiss to admit to it so easily. "Competition is counterproductive to our goals at this time," he stated instead, letting his back rest against the lab's cold wall. He had to fight to keep himself from yawning again—the conversation was hardly stimulating—and he directed a glare towards the coffee remaining in his mug. More than half gone already, with no apparent improvement to his state of awareness. _Useless._

"Yeah. Right," Birkin agreed hollowly, his attention obviously being grabbed by something else in his lab. Any further attempts at conversing at this point would be fruitless, Wesker knew.

The blond sighed and rubbed his forehead tiredly with his fingers. "Unless you've got any objections, I'm going to move on to the next stage and see if this latest T version has any effect on the rodents," he said, knowing that Birkin wouldn't have any and even if he did, Wesker would ignore them.

"If it does, I'll be surprised," Birkin remarked. "But you should hop up here when you're done with that. I want a second opinion on these cultures."

"Fine." Wesker replaced the receiver, and stared harshly at the wall for a moment. Birkin didn't really want a second opinion—even in the unlikely event that Wesker could give him one—and would immediately disregard anything that Wesker might say on the matter. Because, of course, with Birkin it came down to one simple fact: Wesker's field was biochemistry, not virology. As the virologist, Birkin felt entitled to dismiss any of Wesker's ideas on such matters, because it wasn't as if anyone else could know more than him on the subject. Or so he seemed to think.

It was at times like these when Wesker felt more like William's assistant rather than his partner in crime, and he detested it. Granted, he could only just go so far with Birkin, given the limitations of his own training, but that awareness didn't bring him any comfort. He hated that Birkin had more knowledge than him in some areas, hated the fact that Birkin was, in general, smarter than him, and sometimes even hated Birkin himself.

Luckily, hatred was an emotion that he could usually keep contained. Their partnership had experienced its times of strain, but for the most part they'd worked together far more successfully than any other research pair at the facility. With an aggravated sigh, he pushed up his sunglasses to rub at his eyes, then allowed the dark lenses to fall back over his nose. There was no point in obsessing over the differences in their abilities; he had work to do.

Though really it could hardly be called such. Just as he'd initially suspected, it was going to be another boring day of inoculations and observations. Tech work, hardly requiring his level of expertise. He should've just slept in.

Wesker began to turn back towards the lab, the mug of coffee half-raised towards his lips, when a metallic crash sounded off behind him. He whipped around in time to see the door to the vivarium rudely thrown wide open, a misshapen object hurtling straight towards him. The mysterious projectile landed with a wet thump on the lab bench and proceeded to slide down the length of it, displacing test tubes, papers, incubators, and even Wesker's microscope before finally coming to a halt at the end of the table, a glistening smear marking its untimely pilgrimage down the black surface.

It was Dr. Creed, or approximately half of him. His torso had been roughly truncated just above the hips, and blood and innards had spilled out all over the bench and the floor. Wesker stared down into the dead man's wide, glassy eyes, listening as blood fell in steady trickles onto the tiles at his feet. His mind knew that there was something deeply wrong with this picture, but since it was running on only three hours of sleep, it was having difficulties processing it all correctly. Finally, something clicked in his brain, and his eyes rose slowly from the dead scientist to the open doorway across the room.

There was something standing there.

Wesker resisted the reflex to take a quick, fortifying sip of coffee; based on the warm splatters on his face and hands, his brew was most likely spiced with droplets of Creed now. Instead he set the mug down slowly, carefully, his eyes never leaving the doorway.

_Impossible!_ his mind roared, exhausted pathways coming alive in the face of such an unexpected encounter. Where caffeine failed, adrenaline succeeded beautifully.

_It can't be..._

And yet it _had_ to be. That misshapen form, the overly long limbs and hunched back could belong to only one individual there at the facility. Never mind the fact that she'd always been catatonic when he'd seen her, and disregard all the locked doors and security measures she'd been trapped behind.

Their Female Test Subject was on the loose, and if the expression on her twisted face was any indication, she was out for blood.

_His_ blood.

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><p><strong>Female Test Subject is Lisa Trevor, but I'm not sure if Wesker ever knew that (it isn't as if Umbrella would bother with the names of its specimens, after all), and this is supposed to be more or less from his point of view. So she shall remain "test subject" throughout the story. Also, the Arklay facility here is not based off the game (I sure as hell can't remember the layout); it's more of a generic laboratory setting that better serves my purpose.<br>**


	2. Escape

**Just a heads up: I never played the REmake, only the original, so I've never actually dealt with Lisa in a game. If her behavior or abilities seem a little off, that would be why.**

**I don't own any of these characters (except maybe the nameless fodder, but they don't really count as _characters_, do they?).  
><strong>

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><p>"Oh, <em>shit<em>."

Not his most eloquent moment, but Wesker felt the expletive summed up the situation fairly well nonetheless. The mutated creature standing in the doorway snarled, revealing badly crooked and bloodstained teeth. They weren't fangs, which some of the specimens had developed, but that fact wasn't much of a comfort when the subject was obviously capable of _tearing people completely in half_. Not being particularly amenable to the thought of sharing Creed's fate, Wesker broke into a dash for the exit.

The test subject let out a gurgling snarl, infuriated by his escape attempt. She lumbered forward, her grotesque form moving surprisingly quickly despite her staggering gait. Whether she could run faster than him, Wesker didn't know, and—luckily—he was too close to the exit to get a chance to find out. His fingers sought out the touch panel set into the wall; with a small _beep_, the door obligingly slid up, and he fairly threw himself through. The creature managed to scramble under the door on his heels, just before the barrier began to slide back down. Wesker stifled another curse; he'd been hoping to trap her in the lab. Then again, she'd handled the vivarium door with little difficulty, so it probably wouldn't have done much good, anyway.

There were other scientists in the hall, most of them just starting their day. Some were too busy reading whatever files they held in their hands to take note of the commotion going on nearby, but most looked up to give Wesker a puzzled glance. Then the monstrous subject let out a blood-curdling shriek, effectively gaining _everyone's_ attention.

Pandemonium ensued as the white coats scattered. There weren't very many places to go in the hallway, however. Since the subject was blocking access to the western corridor—and the closest elevator, Wesker noted with despair—most of the scientists ended up running in the opposite direction. Wesker slipped in among the crowd, trying to hide himself among the many bodies. He supposed it was possible that the subject wasn't chasing him _personally_, but that look he'd seen in her clouded eyes seemed to suggest otherwise.

Did she remember all the testing he and William had done on her? It didn't seem likely; she'd been unconscious throughout the ordeal. And yet...perhaps she had not been so oblivious after all. It was an unpleasant thought; they'd given her plenty of cause for revenge. Wesker stared ahead grimly, pushing aside one of the slower researchers as he searched for a stairwell. Regardless of the subject's objectives, he had to get back up to the surface right away. Down in the labs, he was trapped like a rat.

One brave soul near the back of the crowd made a dive for the nearby alarm. He got as far as wrapping his fingers around the bright red lever before the test subject caught up with him. Tentacles—_tentacles?_—erupted seemingly from her neck, appearing from between the few brown, greasy streaks of hair the subject still retained. They tangled around the man's midsection, yanking him down to the floor. His hand followed suit, activating the alarm and immediately dousing the lab in crimson light. The sirens began to ring, slow undulations of sound, not quite reaching the volume or pitch of a fire alarm. Umbrella liked to keep its biological accidents a secret, even from the empty slopes of the mountains.

The man in the subject's grip let out a horrible wail, one that was cut off abruptly with a sickeningly wet tearing sound. A few scientists around Wesker let out panicked and fearful moans of their own, but Wesker pressed on, largely unfazed by the man's demise. Staring into the depths of Creed's abdominal cavity had sufficiently desensitized him to the horror, and he was quite certain that if he stopped to agonize over it, the subject would just catch and kill him too. Adaptability had always been one of his strong suits.

Wesker picked up his pace as he noticed the crowd around him thinning. His fellow scientists were branching off, seeking refuge in the labs scattered along the hall. The urge to get out of the open, to disappear from the test subject's sight was strong, but Wesker ignored it, crushed it down under a strong dose of rationalization. Every one of those labs had no other entrance or exit save for the hall door, and those doors couldn't keep the subject out. If she got into one, the scientists would be completely trapped and helpless. Wesker frowned at the thought. He'd just as rather turn and fight to the death than cower fruitlessly in a corner, given the option.

Of course, he was sticking with the third option: namely, staying alive through brisk movement and the escape plan rapidly developing in his mind.

Somewhere down the hall the test subject let out a chilling growl, and he heard her strike out against a metal surface. A door, perhaps, though he didn't turn around to look. It would be all the better, he felt, if she didn't see his face again.

There were still three scientists keeping pace with him; as the subject's footsteps behind them began to pick up speed, that number rapidly dwindled to one as the other two took a sudden turn into what Wesker highly suspected was a janitor's closet.

His remaining compatriot seemed to be headed in the same direction as Wesker—his lab of refuge must have been out of reach, unlike the others'—and he was the first to reach the stairs. He grabbed the handle of the door and wrenched it back with all his might, but the door only opened about an inch before stopping. He turned to Wesker, his face pale and bloodless from horror, his features drawn into a mask of confusion. He rattled the door again, his mouth hanging open slackly as his mind tried to process what was happening.

_The door is jammed. The goddamned door is jammed again_. With a growl of disbelief, Wesker shoved aside the worthless researcher and grabbed the door himself, shaking it for good measure. It didn't budge, even when he slammed it closed to try and loosen whatever had become locked in place. A mottled scream echoed down the corridor, and out of the corner of his eye Wesker saw the test subject lurching in his direction. The other scientist fell back in his panic, landing roughly across the concrete on his ass, and he proceeded to try and scoot backwards with his hands and feet. It was not an efficient system of locomotion, and his progress was slow. An easy target, really.

But Wesker was nonetheless the closer one. He ditched the door, turned his back on the subject as he made to run, and then abruptly found one of his legs being yanked out from under him. The floor met his chest hard, forcing his breath from him in a _whoosh_. There was another tug on his ankle—a tentacle had seized him, he realized—and then he was being dragged backwards, closer to the test subject and her gore-splattered arms. He hadn't exactly seen how she disposed of her victims, but the arms seemed like the most likely tools for the job. With that in mind, he did _not_ want to get any closer to them than necessary. He twisted in place, gave the subject his most venomous glare, and slammed the heel of his free foot down onto the tendril wrapped around his leg. The slender appendage twitched, but there was no recognition of pain on her face, nor a cry of distress.

_Damn, damn, damn_. He leaned forward, ignoring the strain on his spine, and tried to pry the tentacle off his ankle with his hands. That didn't work much better, either; the muscular rope just tightened further, to nearly bone-crushing levels. Wesker set his teeth against the pain and looked back down the hall once. The other scientist was still sitting there, but as Wesker watched, he scrambled to his feet and dashed away down the hall.

_Every man for himself._ It was Umbrella's less advertised, yet far more accurate, motto.

Still, Wesker made a mental note to, should he survive this encounter, find out that man's identity and punish him severely. And he was determined to survive. He returned to the moment at hand and began clawing at the tentacle. It tightened, predictably, but he eventually managed to get his fingers under one coil of ropy flesh, loosening it infinitesimally. That was all he needed to wriggle his foot loose, though he lost his shoe and several layers of skin in the process.

By the time he'd liberated his foot, however, he had become dangerously close to the subject's reaching hands, and their uncomfortable proximity spurred him into harried motion. He spun around sharply on his back, kicking away the grasping fingers as he regained his footing. From there it was a desperate dash back the way he'd come, only now the subject was on his heels and he realized she was actually probably a little bit faster than him, even with the physical deformities. _How humiliating_.

He jerked his arm forward when he felt a tentacle brush it, and put on an extra burst of speed for good measure. Behind him, he could hear her bare feet slapping over the concrete floor, her ragged breathing echoing harshly down the hall. She sounded very much like a possessed demon, which, in fact, was probably not so far from reality. Wesker ignored that for a moment as he frantically tried to think of a way to shake her off his tail.

In the end he was spared that difficulty, however, for upon turning the corner of the hallway he nearly barreled into a cluster of curious scientists who had most likely been drawn out of their own labs by the alarm or the sounds of struggle. Such an act was in direct violation of Umbrella's standard security measures, and the fools would pay for it with their lives. Wesker pushed his way past them, ignoring their looks of surprise and startled exclamations. When the test subject rounded the corner, she was far less merciful to the audience. Screams of horror and agony, along with a variety of organic sounds he did not want to acknowledge, chased Wesker as he pounded down the southern corridor. Luckily for him, there was another stairwell at the end of the hall. In an even greater stroke of luck, this door was actually open and functional.

He turned back once he reached the door, and did so only long enough to establish whether or not the test subject was still preoccupied with the unfortunate would-be spectators. She was indeed, but given that none of the bodies were moving, he doubted they would hold her attention much longer. With a remarkable amount of restraint, he gently closed the door behind himself so that it settled into place with hardly more than the whisper of a click. It was the most he could do; the door could be locked, but only with the proper key. A key he had not been entrusted with, of course. Resolving not to waste any more time lingering than necessary, he bounded up the stairs, passing the landings for the third and second floors with little trouble and no signs of being followed.

He hit the first floor landing, began to ascend the stairs to the ground level, and then paused, suddenly swamped in indecision. _William_. There was no way the man had actually evacuated. Aside from being against quarantine regulations in the first place, the paranoid scientist would never leave his lab bench unsupervised. Wesker knew that if he left now, Birkin would practically be a sitting duck for the test subject, for he also had no doubt that the subject would make her rounds through the entire facility. There'd been nothing but murder in those dark eyes, and he knew she wouldn't stop her killing spree until she was either put down or had run out of victims. Knowing her body's apparent invulnerability as well as he did, he was betting on the latter option coming to pass.

"Goddamn it," he hissed out, pushing his blond hair back with his sweaty palms. What was it that Spencer had always advocated? Loyalty to none but the company? A good philosophy, though Wesker had personally edited it to "loyalty to none but oneself". It was a damn good way to live by, for it kept him out of the troubles and pitfalls that usually befell those who attempted to solve everyone else's problems. So then _why_ was he walking back down the steps, and _why_ was he entering the first floor corridor?

He needed William if he was to complete the T virus; it was that simple. Throw in the fact that there was no way the test subject had gotten up to the first floor so quickly, and it was possible to conclude that there wasn't really any risk. Or so he told himself. That was why he was doing it. It certainly wasn't because William was the only human Wesker could stand being confined in the same room with for any length of time, or because after ten years of a long, understated game of one-upmanship he was the closest thing to a friend Wesker had. No, this was just for business.

Having convinced himself, Wesker jogged down the corridor, which was lit in red and faintly humming just like the lower levels, though there were no researchers to be seen, alive or otherwise. Wesker followed the same path he'd dashed down while being pursued by the creature, this time in reverse. William's lab was right around the corner, locked up tight as usual. Given the clearance level required to enter the lab, Wesker had expected nothing less. He swiped his key card through the slot and the door slid up easily.

He was already talking as he entered the lab, his mind racing as he tried to think of a fast way to convince Birkin to leave his space. "Will—"

He was cut off by a concussive bang as something punched him in the chest, knocking him back into the hall. His body was numb as he stumbled backwards, but his mind was not. Before the automated door slid shut, he spotted a wide-eyed Birkin standing near his lab bench, a clunky silver object clasped awkwardly in his hands.

A gun.

He'd been holding a fucking _gun_.

_Jesus Christ, I've been shot_.

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><p><strong>Just so you know, this is supposed to occur before Lisa is bonded with the NE alpha parasite, so this is <em>not<em> when she goes on a face-stealing rampage.** **Of course, she shouldn't have the tentacles yet, then, but...I didn't realize that until _after _I made them her primary form of attack. Whoops.  
><strong>


	3. General Idiocy

**This chapter is rather long, and I'm awfully sorry about that.**

**I own none of these characters!**

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><p>The numbness in Wesker's body lasted approximately a second, until his back collided with the far wall of the hallway and pain exploded throughout his shoulder in fiery waves of agony.<p>

"Ungh," was all he could manage verbally as his hand came up to gingerly clasp his left shoulder. The pain was most severe there, the epicenter lying somewhere just beneath his clavicle. Hot blood pulsed between his fingertips, and he looked at the crimson-smeared digits with fascinated detachment. He'd never been shot before, had never, in fact, planned on getting shot in the first place. Life was just full of surprises.

And then it hit him, really hit him. _I could have been killed_. Whether Birkin had been aiming for his heart—or head, for that matter—or not, the shot wasn't all that far off from a fatal blow. Why _anyone_ let that jumpy, nervous, overly paranoid man anywhere near a firearm was beyond Wesker, and at that moment he was really wishing he had just kept climbing those stairs.

The door to the lab slid open, revealing the man in question. He was _still_ holding the damn handgun.

"Come to finish me off, have you?" Wesker growled out through teeth clenched tight in pain.

Birkin's eyes were still as wide as saucers, but now his face was several shades paler as well. "Jesus, Al! I-I thought you were—" he broke off suddenly, unable to verbalize just what monstrosity he had pictured coming through the door. Instead he waved his hands vaguely, helplessly, before offering a palm to his fallen friend, his horrified expression morphing into one of mortified regret.

"Did it not occur to you," Wesker sneered as he snatched William's palm with his own bloody hand, "that I am the only one here with a key card to your lab? There's also Spencer, of course, but I think you'd have even _less_ cause to open fire on him." Birkin pulled him to his feet, and Wesker swayed drunkenly for a moment before regaining his balance. The initial flare of pain in his shoulder was receding, but not quickly, nor by any large increments, and Wesker had a sinking suspicion that it wasn't the sort of thing that just went away on its own.

Birkin was appropriately sheepish. "I wasn't really thinking, I guess." Wesker rolled his eyes, having come to that conclusion much, much sooner. "When that outbreak alarm went off, I just figured it could be anything. You know, maybe the virus was released and the infected were out and about..." He trailed off as he slid his own card through the slot, reopening the door yet again. He motioned for Wesker to enter, and for a moment the other man just stood there indecisively, the test subject still very much on his mind. All things considered, he'd rather head back to the stairs than into the lab, but it wasn't as if Birkin was just going to follow him without explanation. And as much as Birkin might deserve to be slaughtered, leaving him behind now meant he would've gotten shot for nothing.

Letting out a small grumble, Wesker ducked through the doorway. It was better to do the explaining there, rather than in the open expanse of the hall, after all. The injured researcher found a stool by one of the lab benches and sank into it with a poorly muffled groan.

"You _know_ the incubation period alone would give you several days, at least, before any reanimation occurred," Wesker pointed out darkly as William moved fretfully about the lab. It was ridiculous that Wesker had to mention that at all, for it was William who had characterized that particular trait in the first place. But then again, Birkin did not respond well to emergencies or interruptions, so his actions did not surprise Wesker. It was the gun that had caught him off guard.

The other man wasn't really paying attention to Wesker's words. After knocking aside several precariously staged electrophoresis rigs and shoving aside a rather expensive inverted microscope, he managed to rip a wad of paper towels from a container half-buried under electrical cables and plastic tubing. It was only when he thrust the mass of it under a spigot and drenched it in water, all the while sending Wesker the occasional glance of thoughtful concern, that the ailing blond began to get an inkling of what he planned to do. Wesker held up his good hand stiffly, as if to ward off the other scientist's good intentions. "Don't," he stated firmly, tilting his head to stare down Birkin over the tops of his sunglasses. "Just don't."

"But we need to remove the bullet," William responded cajolingly, replacing the gun in his hand with a scalpel. Birkin did not have the steadiest of hands; the small blade flickered with reflected light as it trembled threateningly between his fingers.

Wesker eyed the small instrument incredulously. "William, I am going to leave that task to a trained medical professional," he asserted slowly, emphatically. He closed his eyes wearily, trying and failing to not envision Birkin accidentally slicing open his subclavian. What a sad end that would be, falling not to the murderous monster rampaging three floors below but rather to the idiot he'd been trying to evacuate.

"But the bullet—" Birkin protested weakly, staring at the patch of blood spreading over Wesker's shoulder. Wesker could feel hot rivulets of blood escaping past his saturated shirt to drizzle down his arm, but he was certain that any attempts to retrieve the bullet would not in any way alleviate the pain or the bleeding.

"It can wait. You've done enough already," Wesker growled. "Besides, there isn't time for that. Or were you thinking those alarms were false ones?"

William paused, fingering the blade of the scalpel nervously as his eyes darted to the pulsating red light over the door. "I take it you know what it's all about then," he said, and he seemed to give up on his misguided attempt at doctoring. Much to Wesker's relief, he returned the scalpel to its drawer. Then he picked up the gun again, utterly destroying Wesker's brief peace of mind.

"It seems our female test subject is on the loose," he stated simply, massaging his screaming shoulder absently. The act did absolutely nothing for the pain, and he had to stop when the edges of his vision began to blur.

"Female..." Birkin looked confused for a moment, before horrified understanding broke out across his face. "That isn't possible! She was completely comatose!"

"Not anymore. _Something_ woke her up," Wesker replied dully, exhaustion making a return, "and she's completely out of control. I just saw her mow down several scientists unfortunate enough to get in her way. She'll make it up here eventually, and when she does, those doors won't do a damn thing. We've got to leave _now_."

William stared at him blankly for a full minute. "I don't know..." he started, then closed his mouth with a snap and shook his head. "I can't just leave the lab like this," he said helplessly, spreading his arms wide to take in the mess around him. "All my files, my research..."

"It'll be here waiting for you once this problem is dealt with," Wesker reassured him, tone bordering on acerbic as he fought down his impatience. They didn't have _time _to argue about these trivialities.

"Security's probably taking care of the issue right now," Birkin commented pointedly, thrusting hiss hands into the pockets of his coat. "I mean, that's what they're _here_ for. They've been trained and equipped for trouble, so…" he trailed off, hardly sounding sure of his own assertions.

"Not for this," Wesker argued, voicing both of their thoughts aloud. They both knew just how resilient the creature was; a few bullets weren't going to put her down, and the only thing the teams had really been trained to do was shoot at anything odd. They were probably dropping as fast as the unarmed scientists. "Will," Wesker groaned, exasperated, "if you don't leave now, your research is going to end up in someone else's hands when Spencer has to replace your dead corpse."

William ran a hand through his hair, his face pinched in displeasure. After a few quick rounds of frenetically pacing up and down the lab, he spun on his heel and turned a distressed face towards his comrade. "Fine, _fine_. You're _absolutely_ sure that this threat is real though, correct?"

Wesker gestured to the blood splattered over his lab coat, though by now he suspected that it was more his blood than Creed's. "Yes, I am," he responded with as much patience as he could muster, more than a little affronted that Birkin was so ardently questioning his judgment on the matter. "I saw her for myself, you know."

He watched as the last traces of hope drained from his friend's face, the reality of the situation finally fully sinking in. Birkin wobbled on his feet a bit, before falling back onto a stool. "Oh shit. Oh my God, Al, what are we supposed to _do?_"

Had they not just been over this? "Leave the grounds, obviously," Wesker replied calmly enough, though he couldn't quite keep his eyebrows from twitching downwards in irritation. "The stairs aren't so far from here, and there's only one flight between us and the surface. If we go now, we'll be fine."

Birkin nodded quickly, almost enthusiastically, fully willing to let Wesker take control of the situation. He'd never done so well under pressure, after all. "Right, right. Okay. Should we take a weapon, or something?" He lifted the handgun again, toying with the Beretta nervously. Wesker held his hand out, silently requesting the weapon. When William handed it over, he slid out the magazine. It was not an easy task, given his one-armed status, but he rather doubted Birkin knew how to do it.

His eyebrows rose when he saw two bullets remaining in the magazine. With the one in the chamber, it gave them all of three shots. Where was the rest of the ammunition? "Jesus, Will, how many people have you been shooting?"

Birkin threw up his hands defensively. "I haven't used that gun at all before! I only put it in the lab in case of an emergency."

"Fat lot of good it'll do when it's empty," Wesker snorted, replacing the magazine. "I don't suppose you thought to bring extra bullets?" When William shook his head morosely, Wesker could only sigh. "She's practically bulletproof anyway," he conceded. "This caliber of bullet could never hurt her."

"So we go out there empty handed?" Birkin was clearly not thrilled by the idea. Neither was Wesker, truthfully, but they had rather limited options when it came to weapons. Especially when it came to ones that would actually be _effective_ against the monster.

"We don't have to go far." Wesker moved to the door, activating it so that he could look out into the hall. It was as empty as before. "She probably hasn't gotten past the bottom floor yet."

"I don't like this," Birkin muttered unnecessarily, wringing his hands anxiously as he leaned over Wesker's shoulder. Suddenly he sucked in a panicked gasp of breath and snagged hold of Wesker's sleeve, brutally jerking down his friend's injured shoulder. Barbed spikes of pain lanced up the taller scientist's arm, exploding in his head with a sharp flash of white light, black spots, and fresh agony. Wesker shouted out reflexively and took a swing at the man behind him, bowling the young twit back into the lab.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Wesker demanded, clutching at the crimson patch over his shoulder. Birkin looked up at him from his spot on the floor, his eyes wide and horrified. He didn't seem to have noticed the fact that Wesker had even hit him, though his cheek was beginning to swell from the blow.

"We can't just leave!" he burst out, pushing himself to his feet absently as he fixed his vacant stare on Wesker.

_Christ, not this again_.

"Annette! Al, Annette's still down there! In the lab! We can't just leave her behind!"

Wesker frowned deeply, realizing that things were about to get much more difficult. "Annette's lab is on the third floor," Wesker stated slowly. "Will, we can't. It'd be suicide to go that far down. The test subject could be anywhere on those lower floors."

Birkin stared at him, mouth agape. "We can't just leave her behind," he whispered at last. "She's my _wife_...and Sherry, oh my god. What'll happen to Sherry if Annette's not...I can't raise her alone!" He shook his head vehemently. "I won't abandon Annette," he declared resolutely, with so much determination that Wesker nearly laughed at the absurdity of it. As if he had even a _chance_ of rescuing her. She was probably dead already.

But Birkin probably wouldn't respond well to that line of reasoning, Wesker realized.

"We don't have a choice," Wesker snapped, perhaps a bit too roughly. Birkin's features set into a stubborn scowl.

"I won't leave her behind," he repeated, eyes darkening with anger.

"Fine. Then _you_ can go and get her. _Alone_. I've got an appointment with the surface that I intend to keep. You'd do well to follow my lead; at least then Sherry gets to retain one of her parents." Wesker twisted back towards the door, listening as Birkin moved about the lab. He would cave eventually, of course. The young man was too much of a coward to let any misplaced notions about love or familial duty win over his own sense of self-preservation.

There was a wrenching screech, followed by a muffled curse, which dragged Wesker's attention back to the lab. Birkin was standing at the head of one of Umbrella's multi-million dollar machines, ripping a narrow metal pipe from its core. "What the hell are you doing?" Wesker inquired, voice dropping in annoyance as the mangled machine let out a few shrill beeps of distress. "The test subject is the one threatening your wife, not that machine," he dryly added when Birkin failed to answer. That comment did not elicit a response, either. "Those repairs are coming out of your paycheck."

Provided he lived long enough to get paid.

His cavalier comments finally got under Birkin's skin, and the young man threw up his hands in frustration as he rounded on Wesker. "You don't even care, do you?" he snapped out, slamming the pilfered bar down across his lab bench. "She's only my _wife_, the _mother_ of my _child,_ but why should that matter to you?" he spat out, the words infused with so much venom that Wesker was momentarily taken aback. The young scientist usually reserved that level of emotion for his research. "Then again, I guess I should consider myself lucky that you _deigned_ to fetch me," he added sardonically, ripping a drawer off its runners as he searched for something else to destroy.

Wesker didn't comment, choosing instead to watch Birkin's antics through narrowed eyes. He spoke the truth, after all—Wesker didn't act against his best interests for just anyone. Birkin had every reason to be grateful.

It took the young man several minutes to find what he was looking for, and in that time he managed to rifle through an impressive number of drawers. Eventually, however, he withdrew from his current cabinet of interest, one fist freshly full of scalpels. As he began to bind them together into a pointed clump with medical tape, Wesker was forced by his own curiosity to repeat his earlier question.

"_What_ are you doing?"

"I'm saving my goddamn wife, what does it look like?" Birkin snarled, shoving the scalpels into the hollow center of the pipe, leaving the pointed ends sticking out. He taped them in place with a mix of medical and duct tape, then brandished his makeshift spear for Wesker to see. "If that monster tries to stop me, I'll just cut open her throat."

Wesker eyed the weapon critically. It was only about three feet long, which meant that to use it, Birkin would have to be standing within the range of her hands and tentacles. Not to mention the fact that her skin was tougher than any other organic material, and the scalpels were sure to be knocked loose the moment they encountered resistance. Wesker shook his head softly; Birkin was going to get himself killed. "You're a fool," he said.

Birkin grabbed the gun, dropped it into his lab coat's bottom pocket. "Yeah, and you're supposed to be my friend, or whatever. I thought you had my back."

"Not for a suicide mission. Just stop and think abut this for a second, Will. You think a few scalpels are going to do anything to that creature? For a purported genius, you certainly can be quite stupid sometimes. She's going to tear you apart."

Birkin shrugged nonchalantly, though his face betrayed his nervousness. "Maybe, maybe not. But I have to at least _try_." When Wesker scoffed, Birkin's grip only tightened on his scalpel spear. "You know, if it were Annette and I up here and you were down there, she'd go down there in a heartbeat."

"Not for my sake," Wesker snorted, crossing his arms. His shoulder ached in protest and he winced, letting his arms drop back to his sides.

Birkin conceded that point with a small nod of his head. "She'd still go to make sure I didn't get killed in the process, though."

"Well, I'm not your wife. If you're determined to die, then be my guest." Wesker extended an arm towards the open door, waiting for Birkin to realize just how ridiculous his plan—or lack thereof—was.

The expected epiphany did not come. Instead, his friend only dipped his head slightly in cool acknowledgement. "Fine. See you around, I guess," he said frigidly as he walked past, out into the open hallway.

"Not likely," Wesker muttered, just as the door slid shut. Wesker turned back towards the lab, his hands clenched into fists. He hadn't even _needed_ to get Birkin in the first place. He should've just kept going up to the surface; it would've saved him a hell of a lot of time and trouble.

_Damn, damn, damn, damn! Damn that woman!_

Their dynamic duo had been functioning just fine until that woman came along and threw a wrench into the works. William would never abandon his work, of course, but suddenly the partner Wesker had been collaborating with was gone, replaced by a man who went home to his family at night instead of conspiring against their contemporaries over a beer in the break room. Wesker had never had many friends, and the fact that Annette had managed to snatch away the only scientist Wesker would voluntarily spend time with was a major mark against her in his mind.

How she had managed that, too, was entirely a mystery to him. She was by no means bright; smart enough to meet Umbrella's standards, perhaps, but those standards were fairly laughable when applied to assistants. Practically any idiot could qualify. Even worse was her attitude problem, especially when it came to him. The relationship she'd cultivated with Birkin apparently left her feeling immune to the usual repercussions that befell anyone who crossed him, and having sensed his dislike of her from day one, she took pains to treat him as rudely as possible, as often as possible.

The fact that he could not really retaliate without angering Birkin—and thus jeopardizing their collaborative efforts—only encouraged her assumption of safety. It was all rather unfortunate and incredibly annoying, even if she had settled down somewhat after the marriage.

But she was still a shrew, and Birkin was still rushing heedlessly to her rescue.

It was a disaster waiting to happen, Wesker mused darkly. Birkin was a genius, but his staggering intellect applied only towards a specific, and rather narrow, field of knowledge. Beyond that scope, he was fairly helpless. Running around with a homemade spear of scalpels only illustrated the fact that he was completely out of his depth, and Wesker _knew_ with absolute certainty that the young man's resolve would dissolve the instant he came up against the test subject. And when he died, their project would probably die with him. Wesker could no doubt eke out something useful from their research thus far, but he doubted the T project would ever make it to that final conclusion that Spencer so strongly desired.

But Birkin wasn't thinking about that, and that was the problem. He didn't care about consequences, probably didn't even care all that much about the results of their project.

He was happy just with the research and making discoveries; _other_ people put those discoveries to use. And now he was selfishly looking after his own interests, utterly jeopardizing everything Wesker had been working towards. With a savage snarl, Wesker ripped one of the electrophoresis chambers from its power source and flung it against a far wall.

Panting out his fury, Wesker watched as streams of buffer solution ran down to the floor. Momentarily appeased by the violence, he let himself fall back onto the stool and abruptly found himself surrounded by Birkin's lab work. Culture plates were still sitting out in the open, not even protected in the flow hood. Several other chambers were still running, the solution within each fizzing furiously with an electrical current, but a quick glance into their depths told Wesker that the markers had run off the gels long before he'd made it up to the room. Birkin had probably forgotten about them while caring for the cultures.

_Typical._

Shaking his head in annoyed bemusement, he flicked off the machines and returned the forlorn cultures to the nearest incubator. The man couldn't even multitask properly; the test subject was going to wipe the floor with him. If he even got that far; knowing Birkin, the man was just as likely to accidentally put the spear through himself as he was the subject. With an explosive breath fueled by frustration, aggravation, and more than a little fatigue, Wesker pinched the bridge of his nose and fell back against the nearest cabinet.

He couldn't let Birkin get himself killed. Maybe Annette was alive, maybe—hopefully—not, but either way the man would probably give up his crusade once they had discovered her fate. And with a little bit of luck and a great deal of deal of caution, they need not encounter the test subject while they embarked on their search—she was hardly subtle, after all, between her feral screeches and trail of mutilated corpses. With a little guidance, maybe Birkin could make it there and back, alive.

Though that did mean Wesker's involvement, and he was loath to risk himself on something so stupidly pointless. Better that, though, than to end up with a bunch of Annette-grade assistants as a replacement for the fool. And unlike Birkin, he need not be completely helpless; he could take a _real_ weapon into the fray.

Wesker moved deeper into the lab, locating the massive refrigeration units set into the back wall. He jerked open a chilled drawer, revealing rows upon rows of small, fluid-filled vials. It took him only a moment to find the one he wanted, and he scooped it out with care. There was a box of plastic-wrapped syringes on the nearby counter; attaching a needle to one of them, he filled its chamber with the vial's contents. His arm protested all the while, though for the moment it was still useable. Given the fact that it moved a bit more stiffly than it had only a few minutes ago, however, he rather suspected it would be entirely useless soon enough.

He really was going to have to think of an appropriate way to thank Birkin for that. Later, though. Revenge was hardly possible when the target was already dead, and he'd wasted enough time as it was. Birkin could have wandered rather far by now.

Capping the syringe, he dropped the device into his pocket and patted it absently to make sure it wasn't going anywhere. One had to be a little cautious, after all, when one was carrying around enough concentrated curare to kill an entire neighborhood. He doubted that even the test subject would be able to withstand the poison; the problem, however, was getting the needle past her thickened hide. That could be dealt with in good time, though. First he had to catch up to Birkin before the test subject found him.

* * *

><p><strong>Well, I'm off to play Revelations. This week, surely, I will finish it. <em>Surely.<em> (Is it sad that I've had the game since the day that it came out but haven't beaten it yet?)** **In my defense, though, it is an awful fucking game.**


	4. Descent

**Digression: Guys, now that we know the mysterious merc is most likely—hopefully—not Steve, I can safely say that I am stupidly excited about RE6. It's not what I was expecting when Capcom promised a reboot of the series****; I don't much care for Leon, this Carla/Ada thing is confusing, and Chris' campaign looks a bit too CoD for my tastes, but...a melee-based campaign where you get to play as a superhuman****? HELL. YEAH.** **All I ever wanted.** **Of course, trailers can be misleading (I'm looking at you, Revelations!) but...still totally stoked.**

**Anyways...enough of that. None of these characters are mine!**

* * *

><p>"William!"<p>

Despite all his posturing and his galvanized attitude, the scientist hadn't gotten very far. When Wesker stepped out of the lab, he immediately spotted the spear-wielding man standing at the end of the hall before the doors of the elevator. The down arrow was glowing brightly in the dim red light.

Birkin turned to face Wesker, his features still pulled down into a frown. "Look, I don't care what you say. I'm going down there, and that's final. If you're so worried about your own skin, just get out of here already and leave me alone."

Wesker glared at him, jerking off his shades so that Birkin could enjoy the full intensity of the gesture. "You're an idiot," he snapped, coming to a stop next to Birkin. He looked up at the elevator; according to the display, the car was stubbornly remaining on the fourth floor. Wesker's floor. _How curious_.

"I think the elevator's broken," Birkin commented at last, when it became apparent that the car wasn't moving anywhere anytime soon.

"Then we'll have to take the stairs," Wesker pointed out, tilting his head towards the nearest stairwell.

"_We?_ So you're coming, then?" Birkin regarded him skeptically, as if he expected Wesker to knock him out and drag him to the surface the moment his back was turned. Not such a bad plan, actually. Too bad he couldn't actually implement it with only one arm.

"Against my better judgment," Wesker conceded gruffly. "I'm not about to waste my time training your replacement."

The corners of Birkin's mouth quirked up into a smile. "A fate worse than death, apparently," he commented.

"Apparently," Wesker agreed absently, his eyes glancing back once towards the elevator. Still no movement from the car; they were obviously wasting time waiting around. He was about to lead the charge to the stairs when another thought occurred to him. "Perhaps you should try _calling_ Annette first, before we embark on this little endeavor? Things would be greatly expedited if she were to make her way up here, if she hasn't already."

"W-well, I guess," Birkin responded hesitantly, shooting nervous glances towards the stalled elevator. "As long as it doesn't take much time..."

"A minute won't make much of a difference in the long run," Wesker pointed out, rather certain that Annette's fate had already been decided. Theirs were still very much in the air, however, so he waited in the lab's doorway while Birkin dialed Annette's lab's extension, all the while keeping a lookout for any signs of the wayward subject. There was a tense moment of silence on Birkin's end, which ended only when he dropped the receiver back onto its cradle. "No one picked up," he announced hoarsely, his face paler than before. "Someone _always_ picks up."

"And you are absolutely certain that Annette is in today?"

Birkin could only gulp and nod, the trembling of his spear a testament to his shaking limbs.

Wesker sighed. "Then it can't be helped." He slid out of the doorway, turned towards the stairs. With a quick but meaningful glance over his shoulder at Birkin, he silently commanded the shorter man to stay behind him. "We've given the test subject enough time to wander," he explained, approaching the stairwell cautiously. "She could be anywhere, so keep your guard up. And do _not_ point that stupid spear at me," he added as he heard the metal point click against the wall not far from his elbow.

"Right, sorry."

Wesker shushed him before slipping the door open. The old hinges let out a soft squeal, but the sound did not carry far. Wesker stepped out onto the landing and craned his head over the railing, looking down the flights of stairs. No signs of the marauding creature, though he was not overly reassured. She was a crafty one; he had seen it in the black pits of her eyes. Motioning for Birkin to follow him, they crept down the stairs in relative silence. The other scientist's increasingly frantic breathing was a bit too loud for Wesker's tastes, but he didn't think there was much he could do to make him stop.

They passed the second floor without trouble. There was no sign that the test subject had reached that floor yet, though they didn't actually stop to check the hall. Instead they pressed forward, descending to the third floor as Birkin began to hyperventilate.

"Will you _be quiet_?" Wesker snapped, keeping his voice at the lowest possible volume despite his irritation. "You might as well be shouting out where we are to our abnormal friend. _Calm. Down_."

Birkin had no way to respond save for gasping and clutching vainly at his chest. Wesker spun around and clamped his hand over the ailing man's mouth, which did not help the situation in any possible way. Birkin simply began to claw madly at Wesker's hand, as if he were being strangled, and when that failed to work, he shoved against Wesker with all his might, one hand finding Wesker's bad shoulder. With a barely muffle curse, Wesker shoved Birkin back, causing the younger man to stumble against the railing and drop his spear. The metal tubing fell to the ground with a harsh echoing clang that filled the concrete well with lingering reverberations.

_We're dead_. _Everything in the complex must have heard that._

Wesker froze in place, along with Birkin, who seemed to have regained control over his lungs from the shock. They both stared at one another, wide-eyed, as they waited for the creature to come bursting through the door.

After a long minute, however, nothing happened. When she didn't even let out so much as an angry peep, Wesker let himself relax. "That was stupid," he declared, directing an accusatory glare at Birkin as he ran a hand nervously through his hair. "Really stupid."

"It wasn't my fault," Birkin muttered shakily as he retrieved his weapon from the floor. After checking to make sure the scalpels were still secured in place, he nodded towards the door. "So...do we just go on through, or...?"

"Just wait," Wesker responded, his heart rate still elevated as he grasped the door handle. He pushed it away delicately, exposing an inch of the hallway to his eyes. There were no sounds save for the murmur of the alarm, and from what he could tell, no erratic activity. He forced the door open wider, until he was able to acknowledge that the test subject was indeed currently absent.

Not that she hadn't been there earlier.

"Oh no," Birkin moaned, his pale face turning the color of parchment as he glanced over Wesker's shoulder. "Oh no, no, no no_ no_..." His spear fell to the ground again with another loud clatter, but he seemed oblivious as he tried to push past Wesker's tall frame.

Wesker arrested his clumsy movements by grabbing onto the collar of his lab coat and roughly hauling him back. "Careful," he warned. "She might still be around."

Birkin seemed unable to hear him over his own mewling sounds of denial. He twisted fruitlessly against Wesker's grasp, growing increasingly frantic until his shoes finally lost traction with the floor and he fell to his knees. Wesker's hold broke then, and the younger man's back curled, allowing him to bury his face in his hands. "Oh no," he rasped, "oh no." Apparently he was incapable of vocalizing any other words.

Wesker shook his head slowly, his eyes falling over the same scene Birkin could not bear to look at. The doors to the labs on the third floor had been torn asunder, some so badly damaged that they'd been ripped entirely from their metallic frames. Despite himself, Wesker was a bit impressed; such a feat required just as much dedication as it did strength.

The scientists who had taken refuge in the labs had fared as poorly as the doors. Their carcasses littered the floors and doorways, and their blood painted the walls an eerie, glistening crimson. The rusty scent of blood was thick in the air, causing Wesker to crinkle his nose in distaste as he surveyed the devastation. If Annette had been caught up in that...

"She moves quickly," Wesker observed idly. He hadn't wasted _that_ much time arguing with Birkin, had he? Either way, at the rate the subject was going, she could probably clear out the entire facility by noon. "We should do the same," he added, directing a pointed glance in Birkin's direction.

The other man was oblivious to his understated command, being too preoccupied with his own troubles. William began to gag, his chest convulsing as his body attempted to expel whatever the man had last eaten. Which, as it turned out, happened to be nothing; Wesker was unsurprised. "Get a hold of yourself," he commanded brusquely, hauling the panicked scientist back up to his feet. "We came here for Annette, so let's look for her."

"No, no, no," Birkin continued to moan, hanging deadweight from Wesker's grasp. Since his arm was beginning to tire, Wesker let Birkin slide back down to the floor.

"If you're going to be useless, you should wait in the stairwell," he stated impatiently, stepping over his friend's distressed form. Since Birkin failed to respond in any meaningful way, Wesker could only roll his eyes and move further down the hall, his ears trained for any unusual noises. The only thing he encountered, however, was grim silence. There wasn't even so much as a pained groan, which boded ill for the chance of survivors.

As he neared the first lab, he was met with the first casualty: a terribly obese man whose expansive gut had been laid open, obviously not Annette. Wesker pressed on, poking his head into the lab itself. There'd been two technicians working there at the time of the attack, it appeared. One was Asian; again, obviously not Annette. The other was in too many pieces for him to tell, but the ruined torso looked vaguely female. "Will, you better get in here," Wesker called out over his shoulder, nudging one slender, detached arm with the edge of his shoe. "I'm not acquainted intimately enough with your wife to identify her by body parts alone."

There was a strangled moan from somewhere down the hall; Birkin was clearly still trapped in his woeful throes. Biting down an impatient comment, Wesker leaned over a blood-spattered lab bench and located the technician's missing head. Unless Annette had spontaneously aged ten years and sprouted ginger hair, the body was not hers. He straightened and left the lab, moving on towards the next one. Birkin, meanwhile, had resumed retching, though he still had nothing in his stomach to bring up.

Once Wesker had finished inspecting the fourth lab, Birkin had regained enough control of himself to stand and haltingly guide Wesker to Annette's actual lab. This one, like the others, had been broken into, and it contained two bodies. At least, that was Wesker's rough estimate. He'd actually found a total of five hands, but there weren't enough of the other body parts to fully constitute three people.

After a tense moment of scrutiny, Birkin backed away from the scattered bits of people and retreated back towards the door. "She's not here," he said, one hand covering his mouth as he shook his head delicately. "I-those people worked with her, I can recognize them. But _she's_ not here." He fell against the wall, his legs shaking too much to adequately support him. "W-where is she?"

He sounded so absolutely lost and pathetic that Wesker could do nothing but frown. Directing his steely gaze to the floor, he pointed out a large bloody smear that stretched suggestively towards the doorway. "Something was dragged out of here," he stated meaningfully, his eyes rising to bore into Birkin's.

The scraggly scientist just let out a guttural moan and collapsed against the wall at his back. "I-I can't do this, Al, I can't. I don't...I don't want to see her in _pieces_." He buried his face in his hands, his chest heaving spasmodically. Wesker couldn't tell if he was about to start sobbing or vomiting again, though either outcome was unacceptable. He hauled the man back up by the collar of his lab coat and propelled him out into the hall, his eyes following the smear of blood as it thinned and tapered off. Whatever had left it hadn't been continuously bleeding, which _might_ be a good thing. Of course, that the trail petered out so quickly only made it more difficult for them to follow it.

If indeed they actually wanted to follow it. Wesker had already encountered the test subject once; he didn't really want to do it again. "This was _your_ idea," Wesker spat out at his colleague, who was still gasping into the depths of his palms. "You shouldn't have dragged us down here if you weren't going to be able to handle it." The taller man retrieved Birkin's spear from where it had been dropped, thrusting the metal shaft into the other man's hands. Birkin had no choice but to take it, and its weight seemed to comfort him a bit. He straightened slowly, his eyes resolutely fixed on a point at the far end of the hall.

"I never expected it to be like _this…_but you're right," Birkin replied hoarsely, still gulping convulsively. "We have to keep looking. But, ah, maybe you should take the lead. For now. I just—since you've seen the subject before, that is—ah, well… "

"Pathetic," Wesker muttered as he pushed past his babbling colleague. Of course, he had fully intended to take the lead all along, but to have Birkin actually _request_ it...the man had absolutely no pride.

They moved down the hall, performing cursory inspections of the remaining labs as they passed. A few had no bodies at all, their researchers having luckily run late for work; other rooms looked like they should have belonged to a slaughterhouse. There were no survivors, and there was no sign of Annette. When the two reached the far stairs, Wesker hesitated on the landing. He had assumed that the test subject would continue her parade of carnage up the stairs, but a rather large pool of blood dripping down the lower flight suggested she might have retreated back to her lair.

"What do you say, Will?" Wesker inquired. "Shall we go up, or would you rather go down?" He glanced over at his compatriot, then bit back a sigh. Birkin had lost his nerve again and was petrified; his face as white as chalk, his eyes wide and unfocused. The spear shook visibly in his loose grip. There was obviously no helpful input coming from that part of their team any time soon.

"What if that's her blood?" Wesker heard his colleague mumble as he stared at the bottom of the stairs. "So much...no one could survive that. Not for long."

"Better hurry it up, then," Wesker drawled, wrapping his hand around the lapels of Birkin's lab coat and towing the scientist after him as he proceeded down the stairs. The young man plodded after him stiffly, his feet clomping loudly against the concrete stairs, and Wesker narrowed his eyes, reconsidering the idea of just leaving him behind. He was hardly of any use, after all...but then again, Wesker wasn't about to risk his life for Annette if Birkin wasn't going to do the same. "Could you be any _louder?_" Wesker hissed, giving his friend a rough shake.

Birkin didn't reply, his attention still fixated on the pool of blood at the base of the steps.

"It's just _blood_," Wesker growled. "You've seen it plenty of times before. Now come _on_." He jerked Birkin forward, treading into the small lake of blood, and grimaced inwardly as the crimson fluid splashed over the leather of his remaining loafer. He paused, then grimly let his bare foot fall into the puddle beside its covered twin. The liquid was still warm.

Birkin skirted around the pool to the best of his ability, whimpering slightly. "It could be Annette's," he murmured fretfully, his perpetually wide eyes looking even wilder than before. His panicked gaze met Wesker's for a second. "It could be Annette's," he repeated, slightly louder.

Suspecting that Birkin might go on repeating his worthless sentiments if he did not offer some sort of reply, Wesker ground his teeth and tugged Birkin forward, forcing him to cross over the blood puddle. "Yes. It could be," he stated with a growl, in no mood to offer meaningless consolations. "Let's find out."


	5. Captive

**I own none of these characters.**

* * *

><p>"<em>Mo...ther...<em>"

Annette awoke with a groan to the worst hangover she'd ever been subjected to. Her head was pounding with all the sensation of a thousand jackhammers at work on the inside of her skull, and she wasn't sure how much more it could withstand before exploding. She tried to swallow, her tongue feeling fat and thick in her mouth, but there was no fluid there, nothing but rough, desiccated flesh that rasped together painfully when her throat contracted.

"Ugh," she moaned, twitching her eyelids experimentally. Her eyes began watering before she could even get them open, and through the tears and her rapidly blinking lids, she was only barely able to make out the fact that the room around her seemed to be pulsing in time to the pain in her skull. It wasn't just a little disorienting, it was nauseating, and she shut her eyes rapidly against the psychedelic display. That did nothing to stop the smell, however, the smell she'd just become aware of. It was a thick, rusty, malodorous stench that thoroughly permeated the air, further agitating her already queasy stomach.

_What happened?_

"Will—" Annette mumbled weakly, voice cracking painfully before she could finish her husband's name. _Too many syllables, _she thought to herself dully. _Seriously, though, where is he?_ If she was suffering this much, he'd better be just as badly off. "Wi—" she started to call out again, only to halt suddenly when she realized the bed was sliding out from under her back. She tried to scramble up, her fingers scratching at the unforgiving coverlet but finding no purchase.

_That's not a blanket_, she realized dimly, at about the same moment she realized she wasn't in bed. In fact, it felt suspiciously like she was on the _floor_. Deciding to chance another look around, she cracked open a sliver of one eye, only to be met with that same deep red, throbbing illumination.

_What the hell?_ Before she squeezed her eye shut again, she got a glimpse of metal walls and a ceiling covered in elevated pipes and fixtures, all sliding along out of sight because she was...moving? _What...is going on?_ She felt it then, a tight, slightly painful constriction around one of her ankles. It might have been rope, or chains, though it felt warm and vaguely fleshy...whatever it was, it had a powerful grip on her leg and was pulling her relentlessly down what she realized a hall.

A hall that looked suspiciously like it belonged in the lab.

The lab...

The lab!

A picture began to take shape in her mind, forming sluggishly, remaining very blurry and clouded. She'd been in the lab, that was right. She could vaguely remember the drive up, leaving William on his floor while she went down to her own, speaking to the lab's director...and then...

Annette frowned, puckered her lips and let out another low groan. What had happened after that? And what was happening _now?_ She was still moving, could still feel the cold concrete sliding away beneath her. And then, rather abruptly, she was being dragged through a wet puddle, suspiciously lukewarm and a little too viscous to be water.

The smell hit her again, this time particularly strongly, and Annette's eyes flew open. She _knew_ that odor. One of her limp hands came to life and swiped at the slick floor, coming away streaked with something sticky. Annette held it up to her face, and even in the red glare of the emergency lights she could tell that it was opaque and ruddy.

Definitely not water.

_Okay, okay. It's a little blood. Nothing to panic about_. Trying to remain calm, Annette drew a deep breath through her nose. This was a mistake, however, for the scent of blood only grew stronger, coating her throat, and she felt her stomach convulse threateningly as her nausea doubled in strength. _Bad idea. Focus, girl. Where is William? Where are you going? More importantly, _what_ is pulling you down this hall?_

Pressing a hand against her tumultuous stomach, Annette focused her nausea into quiescence through pure force of will. She didn't know how long she could keep it at bay, though, especially since the moment she started to lift her head the ache in her skull intensified exponentially, threatening to break her concentration. But she had to see what had seized hold of her leg, had to know...

She forced her head up further, trying to crane it forward so that she could see her captured ankle; the pain in her head and neck became a single spike of agony, hitting her so hard she nearly dropped back into unconsciousness. Bile rose in her throat as her vision began to dim, turning hazy and black at the edges, and just as she was about to give in and let her head flop back down to the concrete, she saw It.

Of course, she was in no condition to be making out any details, but then again, that was hardly necessary. The misshapen form of the beast dragging her along was sufficient to bring back the _other_ half of her memories from earlier that morning. After speaking to Davis—_oh god, where is he now?_—about replacing the machines, they'd all been interrupted by the containment alarm...

* * *

><p>"Nobody panic," Dr. Davis announced to the lab gravely, his hands held up in a reassuring gesture as the alarm droned on overhead. "I'm sure it's just a false alarm." He had to raise his voice to be heard above the din as the alarm's volume steadily increased, but for the most part, no one was particularly worried. Between the minor accidents and unscheduled drills, alarms were hardly uncommon.<p>

Annette merely went back to her work, flicking on the nearest bench lamp to counteract the annoying emergency crimson illumination. She spent the next ten minutes or so tinkering with one of the lab's few remaining thermocyclers, trying to figure out why it was no longer heating the DNA samples to melting temperature. It was not the first cycler of theirs to fail, but Davis had yet to approve of her bid to acquire the newer, more reliable model that had just been released on the market. She glanced up briefly to shoot the oblivious director a quick little frustrated glare, and that was when everything went to hell.

The door to the lab shuddered inward with a sudden bang, causing everyone in the lab to jump slightly in surprise. Davis and Adams were closest to the door; they both whipped around, startled, but Davis was quick to try and pacify the worried faces of his lab crew. "Everything's okay," he assured them distractedly, eyes on the door as it began to bulge forward noticeably with a high-pitched squeal.

Annette had leaped to her feet at the first sound of trouble, and now she could only stand frozen in place by a mixture of horror and confusion as the door was rudely ripped apart to admit...some..._thing_. Annette cocked her head to side, squinting her eyes as she tried to work out just what their unexpected visitor was. It looked human at first, though that likeness was quickly shattered once the hunched back, extended limbs, and writhing tentacles were taken into account. But it might have been human _once_, Annette figured, looking at what had clearly been a face. Really, all the necessary parts were there: two deeply-set eyes that more closely resembled bottomless pits than anything else, a small, upturned nose that looked as though it had been squashed back into the skull, and a mouth that was pulled into a permanent leer by the misaligned jaw, which jutted forward to give the thing—creature? person?—a massive under bite. Stringy blades of dark hair fell in sparse patches from the crown of its skull, too little in number to successfully obscure its hideous features.

There was no way to determine its gender, even though the grimy, bloodstained hospital gown it had on did little to cover its body. For a moment it stood in the doorway, seemingly rooted in place. A thick band of drool dangled from one corner of its mouth; as Annette watched in numb fascination, it broke apart and fell to the floor as a fat, globular drop.

It was all too much for Adams, but then again, he'd always been a flighty man. With a small cry of distress, he pivoted on his heel and tried to run—where, Annette had no idea; there was no alternative exit apart from the one the creature was blocking. He didn't get very far, either, for despite its bulk, the creature was surprisingly fast. The tentacles that protruded from its neck—or its shoulders, or arms, it was impossible to really tell—snagged hold of him, wrapping securely around one of his wrists and pulling him back to the creature. It had large hands, and one of those fastened itself over the back of his head once he was within arm's reach.

Adams had enough time to let out one fearful, panicked moan before the creature took his head and slammed it face-first into the nearest lab bench with a sickening crunch. Everyone in the lab flinched, but no one moved to help. Adams was not quite out of it yet, either; his limbs jerked spasmodically as he tried to wriggle free of the thing's grip, and he began making the most dreadful keening noises Annette had ever heard. His struggles were short lived. The creature pulled his head back up, long enough to give the rest of the lab a good look at his smashed face, then thrust it back down with another crack. Adams' limbs drooped, and Annette wasn't sure if he was stunned or dead.

Whatever the case may have been, he became the latter category rather quickly when the creature continued to force his head against the lab bench, for soon enough the other scientists there saw his scalp splitting apart as the back of his skull began to cave in to the monster's strength. Then the skull simply gave way with a very audible crunch, and Davis sucked in a quick breath of surprise. There was absolutely no way he could calm the rest of his crew at that point, and he didn't even try, electing instead to back away slowly from the creature.

Luckily for him, it was still too preoccupied with Adams' remains to pay him much mind. Of course, since it was also still blocking the only exit from the lab, it was only a matter of time before the other scientists there joined Adams in death. And while the others began to congregate together in the back corner of the lab, Annette could only remain rooted in place, locked in indecision. _What do I do? What _can_ I do?_

The creature made that decision for her. With a growl and a rough huffing sound that might've been a laugh or simply the way it breathed through its mashed-in nose, the monster tossed Adams' limp body to the side and sized up the rest of its victims. Its gaze landed almost immediately on Annette, she being the closest target available, and the scientist tensed reflexively.

There was nothing she could do against the creature's next move. In one motion its arms shot off to the side and swung out in her direction, though she was quite a ways out of its reach. That didn't really matter, though, because at that second Annette noticed the metal stool the creature had just flung her way. It arced through the air seemingly in slow motion, but there was no way Annette could move; she couldn't even duck out of the way as the projectile came flying at her head.

* * *

><p>Annette couldn't remember if the stool had hit her, but she felt there was a pretty good chance that it had, given that she remembered nothing else after that moment and that her head was in so much pain. And as for the creature...that creature was now dragging her down the hall.<p>

_Oh no_. There was absolutely no way that was a good sign. She had to get free!

_But how?_ The tentacle latched around her ankle had an unforgiving grip, and she doubted she could just twist loose...nor could she pry the tentacles off; anything with enough strength to smash a man's skull in with one hand was going be more than a match for her. Still, that knowledge didn't stop her from trying; desperate times called for desperate measures.

Heaving herself up into a sitting position, she finally got a better look at her captor as the world swung lazily around her. _I probably have a concussion,_ Annette recognized grimly, though at least she was better off than Adams. There was no doubt about it, either; she was quite clearly in the grasp of the monster that had attacked her lab. Throwing her hands forward, she ripped at the tentacle tightly twisted around her leg.

It was no good. The coils were so tightly wound that she couldn't get a proper hold on them, nor could she feel her foot, for that matter. The circulation had been cut off a long time ago. Her attempts were not completely ineffective, however; with a small grunt, the creature stopped, turning its head enough to leer at her with one of its eyes.

"Please let me go," Annette pleaded, not entirely sure whether the thing could even understand human speech. For a moment the monster just stood there silently, possibly processing her request in the convoluted depths of whatever mind it had left. It was still drooling, the clear fluid having taken on a pinkish tinge as blood mixed with the saliva, and Annette shuddered.

Then the creature spoke. In a gasping, raspy voice, it forced out two syllables that brought a chill to Annette's spine.

"Mo...ther..."

Annette froze, goose bumps spreading down her arms as the monster glared at her. _What the hell...does that mean?_ She didn't have any time to verbalize the question. Without another word the creature lurched forward, yanking Annette along in its wake. The scientist was thrown back roughly, her head slamming back into the floor.

The pain instantly monopolized her senses, and for a moment she could only lie there passively and stare at the ceiling, her eyes unfocused and her mind in jumbles. _Mother? Is it talking about...Sherry? But how could it...it doesn't mean that _I'm_ its mother, does it? Surely not..._ Numb to everything but the splitting headache she was nurturing, Annette let her eyes drift loosely to the hall wall beside her, and she dully noted the streak of dark red paint that formed a uniform stripe along the top border of the wall. Red...she wasn't on her floor, then—that was blue. Had the thing dragged her down the stairs to the fourth floor, then? God, no wonder she was sore all over.

Then her eyes flew open fully. _Fourth floor?_ Wesker's lab was on this floor, and judging by the number of bloody puddles the creature had dragged her through so far, it had already thoroughly rampaged through this section of the facility. _Is he dead? Oh, god. What if William was with him?_ The two spent almost equal amounts of time in each other's labs, so the odds of that weren't as low as she would have liked.

They passed by a mangled body leaning against one of the walls, but it was immediately apparent to Annette that it was neither Wesker nor William; this was not comforting, however, since there were plenty more bodies around that _could_ belong to either of them. Annette began to struggle again, her hands reaching for anything to arrest her movement down the hall. "Let me go," she moaned out, her voice worryingly weaker than it was before.

She had to find William; they had to get out of there.

The monster did not respond in any way to her voice or actions, but it didn't really need to. There was nothing Annette could do even just to slow them down; when she grasped desperately at a doorway—the monster had dragged her into one of the many labs—her fingers were ripped free the moment the tentacle around her ankle went taut. Annette simply didn't have the strength to compete with her captor.

They moved deeper into the lab, and Annette suddenly found herself brushing against the loose coils of someone's exposed intestines. Revolted, she jerked to the side, only to smash into a microscope that had fallen to the floor. Pain lanced up her shoulder, causing her to cry out, but the creature continued on, unaffected.

_Where are we going?_ Annette wondered, craning her head up as far as she could. The monster was headed straight for a metal door that had already obviously seen her wrath, and that confused her for a moment. _None of the labs have a second door,_ she thought to herself, confused, until realization struck. _Except Wesker's!_

Oh god. Hopefully those intestines hadn't been _his_. She hadn't gotten the chance to get a decent look at the body, since it had been elevated on a lab bench.

Well, if this was indeed Wesker's lab...then they were headed towards the vivarium. Annette was suddenly filled with an acute sense of dread. She didn't know much about this creature, but she had the feeling that it was returning to its lair.

And she was also pretty sure that was the last place she wanted to be.

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><p><strong>Speaking of thermocyclers, if you haven't heard Bio-Rad's PCR song yet, I recommend you look it up. It's ah...quite the <em>gem<em>, musically speaking. **


	6. Reluctant

It wasn't Annette's blood. At least, that possibility was extremely unlikely. Once Wesker opened the stairwell door, the two men found themselves facing a pair of legs—and nothing else—lying askew at the edge of the slowly expanding pool of blood. Given that the disembodied limbs were the most likely source of the gore, and that the legs had once belonged to either a man or an unusually burly woman, Wesker felt it safe to assume that Annette's fate was still uncertain.

He would've thought the discovery would set Birkin at ease, but that was apparently not the case. His friend was trembling just as badly as before as he looked down the fourth floor corridor with undisguised dread. Admittedly, it wasn't a pretty sight. There was far more carnage here than on the floor above; apparently Wesker's neighbors had been more gung ho about getting an early start on the day.

"Check the bodies," Wesker muttered to Birkin, propelling him through the nearest lab while he headed further down the hall. He was too preoccupied with his own thoughts to give the bodies littering the hall more than a cursory glance, but that was sufficient most of the time. None of the individuals lying about the place, regardless of how mangled they appeared, bore any resemblance to Annette. Nor was the test subject anywhere to be seen, which Wesker found to be more disquieting.

_She must have returned here for a reason_, he rationalized, though he also had to admit that the creature might very well _not_ be thinking in a logical manner. Less than an hour ago, he would have been hard pressed to suppose she even had any brain activity remaining. And yet here they were, playing some sort of twisted game of cat and mouse with their previously brain-dead patient. It was certainly not the way he'd envisioned himself spending this particular Monday morning, that much was for sure.

From down the hall the faint sounds of retching could be heard. Wesker turned and spied Birkin staggering out of the lab, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Annette wasn't in there," he gasped out.

"Jesus, Will. I never knew you were such a lightweight," Wesker commented disparagingly, though he could also claim to be completely unsurprised by the revelation. "You never had this much trouble with the dissections."

"These people were our colleagues," Birkin spat out—extraneously, Wesker felt, since some of the dissections had involved their colleagues, too—then sagged against the wall, dragging his hand down his face. "And those bodies were _cleaner_, at least. Between the blood and the piss, the shit and the vomit, it really _reeked_ in there." He waved his hands around demonstratively, though Wesker wasn't entirely sure what the man was trying to portray through the gesticulations. "Fresh bodies are disgusting."

Wesker shrugged, not entirely convinced of his reasoning. Not that he disagreed with the man's claim—there was nothing pleasant about what they were seeing—but he was fairly certain that the younger man was still struggling to keep his anxiety in check. At least Birkin seemed a bit more composed than before; while his face was still pale and there was a telltale tremble in his hands, he wasn't lamenting Annette with every breath. That much was progress, at any rate. "Care to check the other labs?" Wesker suggested in a tone that was more appropriate of an order. _He_ certainly didn't care to be burdened with that task, after all. He had more important concerns, namely tracking down a psychopathic test subject before she got the drop on them.

Instead of answering, Birkin merely puckered his brows and pointed further down the hall, where several large swaths of blood had been spilled. Despite the distance between them and the two scientists, it was clear that something had been dragged through them, leaving behind a very obvious streak of red that disappeared around the far bend of the hall. "Maybe...we should follow that?" he suggested cautiously, glancing at Wesker anxiously as he almost desperately waited for approval.

Though Wesker suspected he wanted to do that only because it was obvious that if they did happen to find Annette in one of the labs she would almost certainly be dead, he could not deny that it was the better plan. Until they located the subject they were in constant danger of being ambushed, after all.

Plus, he _was_ mildly curious about what the test subject was dragging around. With a small nod of acknowledgement Wesker proceeded forward, twitching his fingers in a half-wave to indicate that Birkin should follow in his wake. The other scientist was thankfully blindly obedient; apparently he'd brought his panic attacks under control, at least for the moment. Hopefully he would stay that way for the duration of what was almost certainly going to be a disastrous endeavor.

As they followed the bloody smear down the hall, it dawned on Wesker that the subject was heading back down the very path he'd taken in his original flight from his lab. That meant, if she was indeed retracing her earlier steps, she would be headed right back...

And so it was. As soon as he rounded the corner, he saw that the tapering end of the trail turned off and vanished beyond the ruined door to his lab. She'd gone back home, no doubt to deposit whatever treasure she'd been hauling around. Of course, the question remained of whether she was still there or not. Unfortunately, there was only one way of finding that out.

Wesker turned back to Birkin and took one look at the man's handcrafted spear, his eyes sweeping critically over its inadequate reach and dubiously pointed end. It was as absolutely useless as he remembered. "Draw your weapon," he said curtly, pointing to the gun in Birkin's lab coat pocket, just in case the man had any misconceptions about his spear's status as such a thing. "Cover me." Three bullets probably wouldn't do much good, and in Birkin's hands they were more likely to end up in Wesker's back than in the test subject, but nevertheless, it was a small comfort.

With that simple command, Wesker began a careful approach towards the door of his lab. Birkin followed behind him, his movements several levels short of stealthy, but Wesker was well aware that the man wouldn't recognize subtlety if it pounced on him and tore him in half. With a small sigh and a quick warning glance to Birkin—who returned his glare with a wide-eyed look of confusion—Wesker pushed himself up against the wall adjacent to the open door and, with agonizing slowness, cautiously craned his head around the corner.

The lab was empty, and this was not all that surprising to Wesker. If the test subject had indeed returned home, she was far more likely to be lurking in the vivarium. From his position in the hall, those doors beckoned to him with dark promises of danger and probable death. Wesker suppressed a sigh. He _really_ didn't want to go any further.

_Damn that woman_.

Dropping his hand into his pocket, he wrapped his fingers around the loaded syringe he'd stashed there. It had seemed like a good idea at the time—not so long ago, really—but now it felt completely inadequate for what he needed it to do. And he still hadn't thought of a way to get it past her flesh. When she'd been comatose, injections had been, if not easy, at least _possible_. But he didn't have team of technicians to help him, no instruments capable of boring through her nigh impenetrable dermis, no small gauged needles to finish the job. Save for thrusting the needle through her eye—and that would hardly get the drug to where it needed to go—he was out of options.

Oh well. They could either go to her or wait for her to come out; a confrontation was inevitable. He'd just have to do what he could when the time came.

As Wesker moved away from the wall, intending to enter the lab, Birkin seized him by the arm. By his bad arm. Again.

Wesker spun around so quickly, his hand already clenched into a fist, that he nearly punched Birkin for the second time that morning. He refrained at the last minute, however, when he noticed that Birkin was cowering away from him, hands already thrown up in supplication. Forcefully quelling his anger and pushing the throbbing pain in his shoulder to the furthest corner of his mind, he lowered his fist and treated Birkin to a questioning glare.

Birkin opened his mouth to speak—the idiot was not even _trying_ to be covert—and Wesker clapped a hand over the offending orifice, preemptively silencing him.

_Be quiet_, he mouthed, refusing to release the younger man until Birkin gave a nod of understanding. Once he was free, the scientist took a step back and pointed to one of the bodies lying in the blood stained corridor.

Wesker blinked, not quite sure what the man was getting at, until Birkin bent to the body and rolled it over, giving him a glimpse of the Kevlar vest the man had been wearing. The vest itself had done its owner little good, having been torn right down the front—an impressive and horrifying sight, to be sure—but the fact that it was there at all was fairly telling.

It had to be one of the sentry guards; judging by the silence in the facility, Wesker could only assume that the other three on duty were also lying somewhere along one of the devastated hallways. They were unlikely to receive any other aid from that particular quarter now, unfortunately. Which begged the question of why Birkin had bothered to point him out in the first place.

That unspoken question was answered fairly quickly when Birkin extracted the assault rifle from the dead guard's grasp. He held it up for Wesker's inspection, his eyebrows lifted suggestively. For his part, Wesker took the weapon up slowly, not daring to hope for a lucky break. Things had hardly been going in their favor thus far; it seemed unlikely that their luck would change so quickly.

It hadn't. The magazine on the weapon was empty, and as soon as Wesker looked up and got a good look at the bullet-riddled walls around them, it was immediately obvious as to why. With a small frown and a gentle shake of his head, Wesker returned the weapon to the guard. It was useless to them as far as he was concerned, and he wasn't about to lug it around.

But Birkin wasn't finished. By the time Wesker returned his attention to his comrade, the other man had already busied himself with rifling through the dead man's pockets. Within moments he drew back, a black and crimson card clasped between his fingers. He waved it back and forth in front of Wesker's nose, a nervous tic in his cheek drawing his lips back into an anxious, involuntary grin.

A normal smile would have been justified, given the situation, but apparently Birkin was still skirting too close to the edge of a nervous breakdown for him to manage that. Wesker plucked the card from his grasp, confirming his suspicions about it with one probing glance. It was the guard's ID card, useless to him now but a definite change in fortune for Wesker and Birkin. Unlike their own white lab cards, the dark piece of plastic in his hands conferred military-grade clearance; the most important detail of this upgrade being the fact that with such a card, they could access the security forces' weapons cache. Such a room that was, by standard regulations, off-limits to scientists; some wise bloke had apparently realized that allowing individuals like Birkin to wield automatic and assault grade firearms would be a very bad idea.

Restricted access wasn't the best plan when the security forces all fell in the line of duty, as was clearly the case now, but then again Umbrella probably hadn't anticipated something like the test subject breaking loose. Wesker hoped they'd get their act together when it came time to put the Tyrant project into motion—according to Spencer's predictions, those B.O.W.s would be just as bad as the test subject.

If the project ever got that far, that is. Based on the way things were going now, Wesker had his doubts. Even if he and Birkin survived—and that outcome was definitely questionable at the moment—unless the test subject was incapacitated, any other scientists who decided to check in for work would be slaughtered. They could damn well lose all of Arklay's staff in the course of a single day, and there would be few people knowledgeable enough about the T-virus to continue the project.

Spencer would not be happy.

Well, it wasn't really Wesker's problem, of that the scientist was sure. At the moment his concerns for survival took priority over anything Umbrella related; in fact, this little stunt was more than enough to make him feel less than enthused for the work they were doing at the lab. It was one thing to be generating theoretical weapons, quite another to be on the opposing side of one such creature.

Whatever his feelings on the matter, however, he still had a job to do. Namely, putting the test subject down, or at least warding her off long enough to find Annette's mangled corpse and then drag Birkin out of there (although he was also fully prepared to leave the younger man behind if he decided to be difficult when that time came). The card he now held in his fingers gave him the ability to do that, provided the storage room hadn't already been completely raided by the guards. But he really didn't see how they could have had time to do that, since by the time they realized they were under equipped to take on the subject, they'd be dead.

For a moment he glared at the plastic, their potential salvation. Why hadn't _he_ seen it first? How had Birkin—weak, trembling, frightened-out-of-his-wits Birkin—managed to beat him in noticing both the guard _and_ the blood trail? The very thought that Birkin might be more vigilant than he was abhorrent, and Wesker had to fight to suppress a heavy frown from forming on his face as he stiffly lifted his head and stared his nervous colleague down. Folding his fingers around the card, he jabbed his index finger towards the ceiling and mouthed out his next instructions.

_Second floor storeroom. Follow me_.

Birkin gave him a dazed look, then glanced uneasily over his shoulder into the depths of Wesker's lab. His concerns were obvious.

_We can't rescue Annette if we're dead_, he enunciated slowly, soundlessly, drawing a finger across his throat to emphasize that last point—it was the one concept Birkin seemed to have the most trouble grasping. _Firepower first_.

With one final look back towards the door, Birkin clasped his spear to his chest nervously before giving several quick bobs of his head. As Wesker drew back from the door, he heard the scientist shuffle into place behind him. He smirked.

_Good boy_.


	7. Inventory

**It's just another manic Monday (awww man, I should have used _that_ for this story's title), so here's an update. This is my last buffer chapter, which means I actually have to start working on this story again. _Damn_. Oh well. Things will hopefully get more interesting from here on in. It certainly gets more violent after this, at the very least.**

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><p>After running up and down the stairs a number of times already, Wesker was in no mood for another uphill jaunt. Instead he led Birkin to the elevator, figuring they might as well see why it had gotten stuck on this particular floor and possibly fix it, if circumstances allowed for that.<p>

"Ugh," Birkin said aloud as soon as the elevator came into sight. The doors of it were partially open, held in place by the body clenched between them. It was no wonder the car hadn't been able to go anywhere. As they drew closer they saw that the body blocking the doors was not the only casualty, and this was surprising to neither. While Birkin stood uselessly off to the side, Wesker leaned down, grabbed at the limp arm lying across the floor, and tugged the body free from where it lay partly in the car. Once it was out of the way the doors slid gratefully shut, but a quick jab of the call button opened them right back up.

Ignoring the crumpled, decapitated body of the woman—Asian, not Annette—crammed into one corner and the blood spatters gruesomely decorating the floor, walls, and ceiling of the car, Wesker stepped into the elevator and gestured for Birkin to follow. The young man did so reluctantly, casting a fretful glance at the woman on the floor. As Wesker depressed the button for the second floor, Birkin whispered, "How on earth did you manage to get away from her? These poor souls didn't have a chance."

When the elevator doors shut, the smell of blood and exposed guts increased to entirely new levels of discomfort, but Wesker did his best to ignore it, breathing quietly through his mouth. Birkin was less discrete, clapping a hand over his nose while his face took on a certain shade of green. "I knew what I was doing," Wesker answered, gritting his teeth when he heard Birkin begin to gag. "So help me, Will, if you throw up in _here_..."

Luck was on his side, however, for the elevator shuddered to a halt on their chosen floor before he could complete the sentence, and the minute the doors spread apart Birkin stumbled through. Wesker took his time in extracting himself from the car, knowing that just because they suspected the test subject of being in the vivarium, it didn't mean she actually had to _be_ there. But the way was clear; so clear, in fact, that Wesker had to stop and stare, momentarily stunned.

Though her trail of blood might have suggested otherwise, the sheer carnage the two scientists had witnessed in the third and fourth floor corridors had left them feeling rather isolated, the only survivors of the subject's rage. But the hall before him was untouched, pristine—until Birkin lost the battle of wills with his stomach and expelled a mouthful of bile into the far corner, that is—completely ignorant of the destruction and death that had occurred only a few feet below the concrete floor.

As if summoned by the ding of the elevator, the nearest lab door slid open and a disheveled head popped out into the hall, directing an inquisitive look towards Wesker. For his part, Wesker could only stare dumbly at this absurd sign of life, his mind reeling with a sudden—and entirely erroneous—sense of security.

"D'ya know what the alarm's about?" the man asked. Wesker only vaguely recognized him, and was still too taken aback to formulate an answer just then. When the man pointed towards the flashing red emergency lights, Wesker simply moved his head mechanically along with it, staring at the pulsing illumination as if he'd never seen it before.

Then the stranger seemed to notice his shoulder and the blood on his lab coat, and he drew back slightly, sucking in his breath in surprise. "Uh, you alright there?" he asked nervously, eyes darting back towards whomever else was in the lab.

"I'm fine," Wesker replied softly, voice hoarse and distant as his gaze settled back on the other scientist. "Everything is just fine," he reported absently, almost perfunctorily.

It was clear that the other man didn't believe him. After shooting one lingering glance in Birkin's direction, he took a long step back into his lab, the door sliding back down with a grim sense of finality. Wesker doubted the man would make another appearance any time soon, which was fine with him. Shaking his head sharply to dislodge the vestigial traces of disorientation still clouding his mind, he barked out a short command to Birkin.

"_Come on_."

Birkin straightened with a small groan, a hand pressed to his ailing stomach. Despite his obvious discomfort, however, he was quick to comply, trotting into place at Wesker's side as the other man began to stride down the hall at a blistering pace. As they passed by the doors lining the hall, all still closed and undamaged, the younger man could only shake his head in disbelief. "I can't believe everything's so _normal_ up here," he commented. "_Why_ did she only attack the bottom two floors?"

"Who knows?" Wesker replied, only paying a minute amount of attention to the words passing through Birkin's lips. He slid to a halt in front of a reinforced metal door, one hand thrust out to stop Birkin's momentum as the distracted blond threatened to pass right by their destination. "It doesn't matter," he added, fumbling one-handedly with the security card as he tried to flip it into its proper orientation before sliding it through the card reader. There was an agonizing pause—as much as two or three whole seconds—before the reader gave a chirp of confirmation, the light over the card strip switching to green as the door unlocked with a click.

Wesker shoved the door open with his good shoulder, nodding his head to the side for Birkin to follow him in. Neither had ever been in the cache before, neither having any reason or authority to do so. As Wesker stepped into the narrow, closet-sized room, his eyes trailing over the weaponry aligned along the wall racks, he felt that it should have been...bigger. It was no wonder the test subject had so easily slaughtered the guard.

Birkin was less disappointed. "Oh, wow," he murmured, trailing his fingers over the stock of a sub-machine gun. "Oh, _wow_. This is much better than my little handgun."

"Indeed," Wesker acknowledged cynically, his eyes roving hungrily over the assault rifles tacked to the wall. _Leagues better than that three-shot Beretta_. "But will it be enough to stop the test subject?"

Birkin came to a sudden halt, twisting to regard Wesker with a wide-eyed stare. "But...I mean, we aren't actually trying to _stop_ her, are we?" he asked, slightly incredulous, more than a little nervous. "I just want to find Annette."

"Like it or not, Will, we're bound to run into her sooner or later the longer we're off on this fool's errand," Wesker replied brusquely, wondering to himself how he was going to use an assault rifle with his one functional arm. "When that happens, it's going to take a lot more than a few good bullets to drive her off."

Birkin pulled his lower lip between his teeth, worrying at it for a moment before he pointed out a larger firearm nestled in a rack on the far wall. "Well, we could use that," he suggested, the hint of a maniacal gleam appearing in his eyes. "I doubt she'd stand a chance against it."

Wesker didn't like that look. He _especially_ didn't like that look when he saw what it was directed at. Before his friend could reach the weapon, Wesker cut him off with a sharp command of negation. Birkin turned back to look at him, an expression of sheer bafflement pasted all over his face. Wesker sighed at his ignorance. "No grenade launchers, Will," he explained, as patiently as possible. "Fire one of those in these narrow little halls and we'll be just as likely to die as the subject herself. More so, actually," he growled, maneuvering a rifle out of its rack and into his arms. The weapon was heavier than he expected, and difficult to grasp properly; his knowledge of firearms was admittedly limited, he'd never fired anything larger than a .22 before. The rifle felt distinctly odd in his arms, and he didn't think it was just because one of his shoulders was rather dysfunctional at the moment.

Well, there was no time like the present to learn how to use it.

As Wesker struggled silently with his chosen weapon, Birkin shot the grenade launcher a mournful look before turning away. "I suppose you're right," he allowed. "It wouldn't do us much good to kill her if we died in the process."

Wesker narrowed his eyes. _Obviously_. "Just get the other rifle," he urged Birkin impatiently, who was busy drifting aimlessly among the racks of weapons. "We're wasting time here."

"I don't want the rifle," he responded, almost petulantly. Wesker stopped inspecting his rifle long enough to give Birkin a scathing glare, but Birkin shrugged it off with a nervous grin. "I mean, I'd need two hands to use it, and..." he trailed off, holding up his god awful spear with one hand.

"Ditch that piece of garbage," Wesker spat out. "You must realize that it'll come apart the moment you try to use it. What do you even expect it to do against the test subject? Her hide is a lot tougher than a normal person's, in case you forgot."

Birkin's face fell into a stubborn frown, and Wesker realized that any further argument would be useless, no matter how illogical Birkin's position was. "If her skin's so tough, what makes you think the bullets will work any better?" he asked in return. "You can't know if this spear'll be any good or not. Who knows? It might come in handy."

"Fat chance," Wesker countered with a growl, but he quickly turned his attention back to his rifle as he checked the magazine's capacity. What was the use? Birkin had already displayed poor judgment by dragging them into this situation; Wesker couldn't exactly expect him to start acting rationally _now_. "Don't take a weapon, then. It might be for the best, given your track record so far." His shoulder ached in recent memory of Birkin's latest folly.

"Well, I think I could manage the sub one-handed," Birkin mused aloud, moving back towards the sub-machine gun. "It might not be as powerful as the rifle, but with its ammo capacity it could probably be fairly distracting, don't you think?" He turned to Wesker questioningly, seeking confirmation.

Wesker didn't know why he bothered; Birkin obviously didn't value his opinion that much if he wasn't willing to give up the spear. And, as Wesker eyed the firearm, he felt a small trill of fear at the thought of Birkin being in control of that many bullets.

Then again, though, it wasn't exactly wise to have the crippled member of their team act as the sole shooter. "Fine," he sighed out. "Take it. But you are not to fire that thing if I am _anywhere_ within your line of sight."

Birkin chuckled—honest to god chuckled, almost merrily, despite _everything_—and took the weapon up in his hand. "I'm not going to shoot you again, Al, geez. It was an accident, you know."

_That knowledge is not in any way comforting_. "I don't care," he responded, feeling suddenly tired and filled with an indefinable sense of dread. "Just don't do it, or I'll shoot you back, whether you hit me or not." Birkin furrowed his brow, clearly trying to determine whether Wesker was kidding or not—he wasn't, though Birkin seemed to think otherwise. Wesker just groaned inwardly and nodded his head towards the door. "It's time to finish this."

Birkin gulped once, a nervous reflex, before he pasted the manic grin back onto his face. Wesker rather doubted Birkin would be able to maintain his already cracked composure once the test subject appeared, and for one last moment he questioned the intelligence behind arming the man. But then Birkin took the lead back out of the room, a certain measure of confidence evident in his step that had been lacking before, and Wesker thought that maybe, just maybe, that boost in bravery might just keep him from getting killed.

Getting killed immediately, at least. If they could hold off the subject for even five minutes, Wesker would be extremely surprised.

Once they were back out in the unspoiled hallway, Birkin turned to him with a mildly puzzled look. "Shouldn't we warn the others?" he asked. "They could still make it out of here, maybe, if they left now..."

"You think they would believe us?" Wesker asked, mildly incredulous. "These paranoid rats would assume we were just trying to get them to clear out so that we could help ourselves to their worthless research." His mouth tugged into a sneer, even as his mind reminded him that his bloodied lab coat might give the other researchers reason to believe him—the inside of the elevator was particularly damning, as well. But, even if they did...Wesker wasn't exactly keen on the idea of the others escaping, especially when he himself was about to finish up Birkin's suicidal rescue mission. _No_. If he was going down, everyone else was as well. He pointed his assault rifle down the hall, indicating the elevator. "Let's go."

Birkin blanched. "We don't...we don't _have_ to use that thing again, do we?" he asked anxiously. When Wesker gave him a dour look, he began to stutter quickly. "I-it's just...just, you know, I-I have a sensitive sense of smell, and the ride up was rough enough...and small spaces, you know. I hate them, just can't stand them…"

"You're so pathetic," Wesker grumbled venomously, but ushered him towards the nearest stairwell instead. The idea of Birkin puking bile up on his feet was hardly a pleasant thought, and he rather wished to avoid that event if possible.

Luckily, four flights of stairs were hardly problematic to either scientist, especially since they were moving downward. Birkin was even able to keep up a pace that was quick enough to satisfy Wesker; apparently the younger man was growing more anxious for his wife the more time passed. Understandable, Wesker supposed. They hit the bottom of the steps in record time—no blood puddle in this particular stairwell—their spirits comparatively higher than the last time they'd followed the route. Motioning for Birkin to cautiously take up the rear, Wesker cracked open the stairwell door and peered out into the fourth floor corridor.

They were much closer to the vivarium now, and the sight and scent of blood in the air was familiarly thick and cloying. Wrinkling his nose and rolling his eyes impatiently at the small gagging sound Birkin made in the back of his throat, Wesker crept out into the hall.

At the familiar entrance to his lab, Wesker stopped next to the wall, craning his head around the corner as he had before to get a glimpse of the room's interior. Things had not changed from earlier; the creature was still somewhere out of sight. _If she's in there at all_.

With a subtle jerk of his head, Wesker directed Birkin to follow him as he stepped into the room, his back hunched defensively with the rifle pointed and ready to fire. His shoulder was aching badly from the way he was holding the gun, but there was no time for him to worry about it; for the moment his senses were all attuned to the slightest sign of the elusive test subject. At his feet, the bloody trail that had led them thus far had begun to thin and dry out, a sign that whatever the thing was dragging wasn't the source of the blood...or the main source, at the very least. Which really just made it all the more curious to Wesker: was it something inanimate, or had she seized a living prize?

At the door to the vivarium, the trail thinned out completely. That didn't present much of a problem for the two scientists, though, since the vivarium itself was merely a series of linear corridors with branching rooms. There was only one path she could take, and the only way out was through Wesker's lab. If the test subject was down there, they had her trapped now.

Not that that was necessarily a _good_ thing, of course. Wesker wasn't exactly excited about the prospect of finding out how she would react to being cornered. In his experience, an animal with its back to the wall only became more vicious, and he saw no reason as to why the subject would behave any differently. As far as he was concerned, she was plenty violent already. He had no desire to see her take desperate measures.

_All this for one miserable person_, he thought darkly to himself, edging around the lip of the vivarium's door. From his vantage point he could see the narrow hallway extending far down along the facility, turning sharply to the right after about a hundred feet. There were several labeled doors in this hall; Wesker was already very familiar with what they contained—rats, rats, rats, rabbits, and then about five rooms for the mice. None of the doors were open, though signs of the subject's rampage were still visible in the bloody smears and spatters that were interspersed along the wall. There was also a solitary body crumpled up near the bend in the hall, but that was the only victim Wesker could see thus far. Not many people had been in the vivarium, apparently.

There was no sign of the subject, nor was there any reason to suspect her of being in one of the rodent rooms. They would simply have to progress deeper, which made sense—if the subject _was_ trying to return to her place of refuge, she would head back to her cell at the very back of the vivarium.

Wesker proceeded forward with Birkin on his heels. "At least none of the other specimens escaped," Birkin stated quietly, eying the doors as they passed. "Imagine if one of the infected rats got out. It would be chaos." He shuddered lightly, readjusting his grip on the sub-machine gun.

Wesker hushed him impatiently, but then couldn't resist breaking his own rule of imposed silence. "As if this isn't enough chaos already?" he whispered sardonically, raising a brow in disbelief. He wasn't certain how many scientists they'd lost in the span of an hour, but he was guessing it was _a lot_. Much more than usual, to be sure.

Birkin was appropriately sheepish. "Well, I mean...worse than it already is. Like, the outbreak spreading outside. Into the forest, maybe even the city." He shrugged quickly, lapsing back into silence when Wesker held up a finger for quiet. Personally, Wesker didn't even want to _contemplate_ what would happen if the T-virus escaped into a place as populated as Raccoon City. There would be no way to contain it, they would have to...what, destroy the city? They'd probably need the military for that, and that would blow Umbrella's cover sky-high. He'd be out of a job, then, if not dead or at least under arrest...no, that could _not_ happen. Not on his watch.

But there were more important things to focus on at present, and Wesker quickly pushed the doomsday scenario to the further corners of his mind. Reaching the bend in the hall, Wesker peered carefully around the corner until he was sure the next portion of the corridor was just as empty. Once he did, they began their trek past the reptilian section of the vivarium—a little used portion of the facility, given the strange and unpredictable reactions such fauna had to the virus. As far as Wesker knew they'd had some luck with ophidian hosts, but most of the other specimens—various lizard species, mainly—had ended in disappointment. The section was nearly as understaffed and under funded as the aquatics development lab, which was about as equally successful in its endeavors.

Further down the hall they passed by the amphibians, which had seen greater success than the reptiles (though less than the mammals; the T-virus _loved_ mammals). The last Wesker had heard about their project was a possible attempt to combine the better parts of compatible mammalian, reptilian, and amphibian DNA to create a bio-weapon. Though he had doubts about how well such an experiment could be carried out, he had been mildly interested in what the result might be. Given this latest disaster, however, he doubted he'd ever get the chance to see it.

They passed by the last door—_Muscidae_ it read, the personal pet project of one of their more eccentric researchers—and then they were at the final bend. The hall beyond contained the larger animals and the exotics, along with a few primates at the end. _Human_ specimens were kept in an expanded room beyond the very last door; it was also where they'd been keeping the female test subject for the past decade. Wesker glanced down the hall, noting the scattered pools of blood and the door hanging askew at the very end of the corridor. Was the test subject behind it? Wesker thought it rather likely, and there was only one way to find out. With a stern look to Birkin to remind him to tread cautiously, Wesker started down the narrow path.

The hall was louder than the others. Dogs were barking behind nearly every door on his right, and to the left he could hear a number of high-pitched chirps and peeps from the bird rooms. Then he passed by Marcus' intended room—leeches; always empty, never used since the man had permanently holed up in the training facility—and the few other invertebrate sections. After that he was walking past the primates, which were strangely subdued and quiet, though he was too focused on the door in front of him to really pay them much mind.

And then there was nothing else between him and the door, which was almost completely closed. Blood smeared its surface in patterns that might've been hand prints, and it was not a particularly pleasant sign to Wesker. It wasn't open enough for him to see into the room beyond, so after letting out a low, steadying breath, he balanced his rifle on his bad arm and took hold of the door's heavy metal bar handle, giving it a strong tug to pull it outward. When the crack between the door and the jamb was wide enough, he stepped to the crack and peered through.

The animal rooms were mercifully under equipped when it came to the alarm and light systems prevalent throughout the rest of the facility—it was feared that the alarm would stress the specimens unnecessarily—so it was quite easy to see into the depths of the room. Normally the rectangular space was occupied in the middle by three autopsy and two examination tables, while glass dividers separated the sides of the room into compartments to contain their human specimens.

This was no longer the case. The reinforced glass barriers were mostly shattered, and there were no human specimens to be seen—although the vast quantities of blood in the room and the spattered gore hinted at what might have happened to them. The autopsy tables were destroyed and shoved away from the center of the room, and the examination tables had been overturned, forming small barricades on the floor. Two of the room's four industrial-sized sinks had been smashed and were steadily pumping out water that swirled towards the drain in the depressed center of the floor. And crouched over that drain was the beast herself, looking as bloody and psychopathic as he remembered her.

Before he could do anything else, even so much as pull back from the doorway to make a plan, the heavy door was pulled the rest of the way open by an overeager Birkin. Luckily, the creature didn't seem to notice them immediately, even though they were ostensibly standing directly in the open, right in front of her—she was too focused on the object cradled in her arms. Wesker mentally heaved a short-lived sigh of relief.

Then Birkin caught sight of the object the test subject was holding, and there was nothing Wesker could do to stop his friend's next move. Nearly dropping his gun in shocked surprise, Birkin opened his mouth and released a loud exclamation:

"Annette!"

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><p><strong>I promise that things will actually happen next chapter.<strong>


	8. The Gang's All Here

Wesker would've slapped a palm over his face in chagrin if he'd had a free hand. As it was, he nearly spun around and fired a few rounds into his idiotic friend for doing exactly the last thing he'd wanted them to do, namely, alert the creature. For alert she was now, head tilting up to fix her dead black eyes on them, her crooked lips pulled back to bare her blunt, bloodstained teeth in a snarl. But for the moment, that was all she did; in fact, she seemed to be curled possessively around the limp figure of Birkin's wife trapped in her arms, more interested in protecting her prize than launching an attack.

Wesker wasn't sure what Annette's status was. Her hair was matted and sticky with dried blood; her face and clothes were covered in much more fresh coatings of the substance. It was impossible to make out any injuries or determine if the blood was hers or just something she picked up off the floor. The fact that she wasn't moving at all, however, did not bode well.

"Annette," William repeated, voice hissing anxiously through his clenched teeth as the test subject eyed him malevolently, her kyphotic form rocking back and forth as she warily held her ground. "Please, Annette," he urged desperately, moving to take a step forward until Wesker blocked his path with the muzzle of his assault rifle.

"_Shut up_," Wesker spat, fixing the younger man with a murderous glare, "and do _not_ move. You've put us in bad enough of a situation as it is."

His words were lost on the distracted scientist, however, for the words had hardly even left his mouth before the person in the subject's arms stirred. Annette wisely remained frozen in place, perhaps out of fear or injury, though her eyes opened and slid over to meet Birkin's. They were filled with fear. "William," she croaked out hoarsely. "Help me."

Wesker might as well have not even been there for all the attention the Birkins were paying him. "You're alright," Birkin said, voice trembling in time with his knees. Wesker thought he might very well melt into the floor from relief, which was entirely premature in his opinion. Annette was hardly in a favorable position, and he had no idea how they were to extract her from the subject's grasp in one piece. "Just hold on," he assured his frightened wife. "We're going to get you out of there."

He made the mistake of making eye contact with the subject, however, and she let out a bloodcurdling growl, her grip tightening visibly on Annette. The immobilized woman flinched as the creature's abnormally strong fingers dug into her comparatively fragile body.

Wesker had to physically jab the business end of his rifle into Birkin's side to get his attention. "_Stop_," he commanded sternly. "You're going to get her killed at this rate." Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the subject retreating back several steps, taking Annette along with her. There wasn't much space left for the creature to withdraw, however, and Wesker didn't want to know how she would react when she hit the far wall. They had to do something, and they had to do it quickly.

"What are we going to _do_?" William asked, mildly panicked as he parroted Wesker's thoughts back at him.

For the moment, Wesker was rather perplexed about that, too. If the subject was to go on the offensive, she might drop Annette. Then they'd have the problem of dealing with the monster, but at least one of their problems could be solved if Annette was still capable of walking. As it were, however, he wasn't sure how the creature would act if _they_ made the first move. With every step back that she took, her grip seemed to be tightening on Annette, and he didn't think it would take her all that long to start breaking her captive's bones. Maybe they could draw the subject out into an attack somehow...

Wesker glanced down at his gun, a movement that did not go unnoticed by William. "Don't shoot!" the young man cried, loudly and abruptly enough to make the subject flinch with an audible hiss. "You'll hit Annette!"

"I wasn't going to," Wesker shot back angrily, thinking that it would all be well and good if he did hit the man's wife, at least in the shoulder. He still owed him some payback for his own wound, after all. "I'm just thinking..." He ground his teeth, his eyes rapidly searching the room for some tool, or any thing at all, really, that could help them in this situation...but he wasn't even sure how they could be helped. He glanced back at Annette, who was still staring helplessly at William with an expression of pain tugging at her features. "Can you move, Annette?" Wesker asked quietly.

She tried to shake her head, and at that moment he saw the tentacle wrapped tightly around her neck. There was another one around one of her ankles, and there could very well have been more wrapped around her arms or torso, for all he could tell. The subject's greasy hair and limbs were obscuring the rest of Annette from view. "N-no," the woman gasped out; apparently the subject's tentacle wasn't strangling her yet, but it sounded like it was close to doing so. "I-I can't, it's too strong..." Her eyes found William again, and she grimaced as the subject pulled her tighter to her deformed body.

Wesker directed a sidelong glance towards Birkin. "Will, I want you to turn around," he said slowly, "and start running."

Predictably, Birkin responded to this statement not by obeying it, but rather by turning his head Wesker's way and shooting him a confounded look. "Huh?" He appeared utterly befuddled, as if no plausible reason for such a course of action could possibly exist. Wesker mashed his teeth together impatiently.

"_Run_, you incompetent fool. Given the subject's previous display of aggression, she might just chase you." How was that not obvious? To think William was supposed to be a genius...

Birkin blanched. "How is that going to help?" he demanded hotly.

It was clear that the young man wasn't thinking straight, because under normal circumstances Birkin would have grasped the concept behind Wesker's strategy much sooner. "_Look_ at her, Will," Wesker urged him, jabbing the rifle the subject's way. "She can't run anywhere while she's holding Annette. So if you provoke her into chasing you, she'll have to drop her cargo."

"Oh..." Understanding dawned belatedly on the young scientist. "But wait, why am _I_ the one running? What are you going to be doing?"

"She's _your_ wife, so saving her is _your_ responsibility," Wesker reminded him. "Besides, someone has to cover you so that the subject doesn't kill you if this does work. Quite frankly, you're more suited to running than shooting." He sent him a pointed glare, tilting his head towards the gunshot wound in his shoulder to emphasize his point.

Birkin relented quickly. "Oh, fine," he grumbled. "You're never going to let me live that down, are you?" Before Wesker could make any sort of reply—though he hadn't been planning on one, in any case—Birkin tapped the blunt end of his spear against the ground a few times to get the subjects attention. Then, after one wary look to Wesker—_I hope you know what you're doing_—he gathered himself up. "Well, come and get me, I guess..." he called out nervously to the subject, before spinning on his heel and taking off awkwardly towards the vivarium corridor.

Wesker tensed, bringing up the rifle, but it was unnecessary. The test subject had no intention of following Birkin. The moment the younger man started to retreat, she simply hunkered down and began to glower at Wesker instead.

"Shit," Wesker growled. He hadn't thought it would be so damn hard to goad her into attacking.

"Well, that was _brilliant_," Birkin muttered sarcastically, trotting back in through the door. "Maybe we should just go on up to her and pry Annette loose? She doesn't seem to be too keen on doing anything."

"Go ahead and try," Wesker sneered. "If you're lucky, you'll probably just lose an arm."

"Well I don't suppose you've got any other bright ideas," Birkin snapped back, obviously agitated by the sight of Annette still trapped in the subject's unyielding grip. How much longer could she last under the subject's superior strength? She had stopped speaking, so Wesker had a feeling that she was probably having trouble breathing now. Both men knew that if they didn't get her loose soon, she'd asphyxiate.

Gathering up his gun with his bad arm, Wesker bent down and snatched a palm-sized, triangular-shaped chunk of glass off the floor. With an expert flick of his wrist, he sent the sharp projectile spinning straight towards the subject's face. His aim was true, and the shard hit her in the cheek, causing the subject to flinch. There was no blood drawn, but he hadn't really expected there to be, not with hide like hers. The subject responded to the attack nonetheless, however, snarling and uncoiling the tentacle from around Annette's ankle. The appendage found one of the twisted legs of an overturned gurney, and with no warning whatsoever she sent the metal bed flying their way.

The men scrambled for cover, though her aim was not particularly accurate. Wesker was the only one in danger of being hit, and he easily dodged merely be stepping a few feet to his right. The subject did not seem to like the ease with which they avoided her attack, and she let out another harsh growl, her free tentacle writhing threateningly in the air. So long as she remained standing in place, however, they had little to worry about from that particular part of her body.

"Give me a hand," Wesker commanded, bending down to retrieve more glass pieces. For once Birkin didn't question him. Instead, he placed his weapons off to the side before collecting a handful of the translucent daggers in his arms, and, at Wesker's signal, began to chuck them at the subject. His aim was not the best, unsurprisingly. He managed to score some glancing blows, but it was Wesker who got a sliver of glass into one of the monster's eyes. And that was why, with a high-pitched screech of fury, the test subject tossed Annette to the side and lunged straight for the unlucky scientist.

He didn't have enough time to pull his weapon up; his bad shoulder was too unresponsive. There wasn't any time for him to get out of the way, either—though he did try—for the test subject was simply faster and more agile than him. With one surging pounce she managed to bring him down to the floor hard, a bony, leathery hand wrapped around his throat. He tried to fight back, using his right hand to pummel at her snarling face, but after only a few attempts a tentacle came down and smashed that limb into the floor. With a feral growl, the test subject bared her teeth and tilted her head towards his, allowing a few strings of drool to drip down onto his lab coat. The pressure on his throat began to increase worryingly, and black spots skittered across his vision.

"Argh," was all he could manage to choke out as he waited in dread for his larynx to collapse. There was nothing he could do to prevent it, and Birkin certainly seemed to be doing nothing along the lines of assisting him, so he didn't see the conflict ending in any other way. In one last desperate attempt to change his fate, he began scrabbling furiously at the subject's wrist with his bad arm. Almost immediately a second tentacle snapped down, and he bit back a scream as his shoulder was wrenched back against the concrete floor. The black spots in his field of vision expanded alarmingly, eclipsing all but his view of the subject's ugly mug.

_This..._this_ is the last thing I'm to see before I die? Unacceptable_.

His personal feelings on the matter aside, things really were looking decidedly grim for pinned blond until Birkin reappeared, stabbing out at the subject with his spear. As Wesker had predicted long ago, the tape didn't have a prayer of holding down the scalpels once they hit the subject's thick skin. The pointed instruments were merely deflected to the side, most of them falling free of their binding to clatter to the floor. Instead of running the subject through, Birkin found himself jabbing the irate monster with a blunt-ended metal pipe. It was hardly damaging.

Given the subject's revived wrath, however, it didn't need to be. With a short, irritated grunt, she flung out an abnormally long arm and knocked Birkin and his pipe to the side. Unfortunately, this counteract required very little of the monster's attention, and as soon as Birkin was out of reach she resumed her slow strangulation of the hapless scientist she was crushing into the floor.

Birkin wasn't down and out yet, though. In a remarkable show of unusual bravery, the man was back up on his feet and lunging back to the subject's side, swinging the pipe crosswise as he did so. The iron beam smacked her straight across the face with a resounding crack, snapping her head back slightly, likely more from shock than the force of the blow. Birkin's upper body strength—or any bodily form of strength, for that matter—was nothing to write home about, after all. The blow to the face did have the desired effect nonetheless, for with a garbled snarl the subject threw Wesker into the closest wall before barreling towards Birkin.

The young scientist, quite wisely, took a hasty retreat towards the far hall.

There was no way Birkin would be able to outrun her, Wesker knew, and so he picked himself up off the floor as quickly as he could, panting painfully through his abused throat to restore his blood oxygen levels. Annette was also getting into the game. With a small cry of "William!" she staggered unsteadily to her feet before weaving drunkenly towards where he'd left his gun behind. Without so much as an appraising glance back at Wesker, she stumbled down the hall after William and the subject.

It took Wesker a few attempts to regain his feet, and once he did he was all too aware of the way his left arm was dangling uselessly at his side. It felt much like his scapula was in pieces, and he very much doubted that he could rely on it to be of any use in the immediate future. How he was supposed to use his rifle now, he had no idea. But it was also the only weapon he had, so he tucked it under his right arm and began to make his way after the Birkins, leaning against the wall for support.

He really should have just left Birkin behind in the very beginning, Wesker realized. Annette probably would've been a goner, but William would have been safe on the first floor so long as the subject took up roost in the vivarium. _Stupid, stupid, stupid_, he cursed himself, wincing as his bad arm flopped worthlessly against his side. _Never again. I am never fighting anyone else's battles ever again_.

There was a shriek from somewhere up ahead, slightly too masculine to have come from Annette. With a dissatisfied groan, Wesker heaved himself up and broke out into a trotting jog, arriving at the scene in time to see the subject—her tentacles wrapped around one of William's legs—throw the man into, and then through, the door to one of the canine rooms. A flurry of rabid barking immediately followed, interrupted only by a metallic rattle as Annette opened fire on the subject. The creature came to a startled halt in the doorway, swinging around in delirious confusion as bullets pelted uselessly against her toughened flesh. "Mo-ther?" she squealed out, voice cracking between the syllables as she stood there indecisively, tentacles weaving about her in agitation.

_She can talk?_ Wesker was momentarily mystified, but it didn't last long enough for him to waste the opportunity presented by the subject's apparent confusion. "Annette!" he shouted out gruffly, sharply enough to get the determined woman's attention. He held up the rifle awkwardly. "Trade!"

Annette's eyes lit up as she took in the larger and much more powerful looking rifle, and she quickly tossed the sub machine gun his way. Wesker let it clatter to the floor at his feet while he did his best to transfer his assault rifle over to Annette's ownership. It was too heavy for him to throw one-handedly, so he had to settle for more or less kicking it across the floor. The method didn't really matter in the end, since Annette was able to snatch it up and almost immediately return to the task of pelting the subject with bullets.

Despite the heavier caliber, the rifle's bullets didn't seem to be doing a better job of penetrating the subject's hide at all. Then again, he wasn't sure how many bullets were actually hitting the subject, for that matter. Based on the pockmarked wall around the creature, Annette's aim was anything but precise. Lifting the machine gun, Wesker began his own assault on the creature, and while his bullets flew true and did just about as much damage as they had under Annette's control—i.e., none—they did succeed in making the subject very, _very_ angry. Caught between the two gun-wielding scientists, she had few options but to either weather the metallic storm—which was entirely within her capabilities, whether she realized it or not—or take cover in the dog room.

She chose the latter option, and Birkin let out a yelp from somewhere within. The dogs almost simultaneously went silent, save for a few throaty growls that sounded far more uncertain than they did aggressive. "William!" Annette gasped out, and then she was vanishing into the canine area as well. With a long-suffering sigh and one last, wanton look down the vivarium's hall toward the exit, Wesker followed in her wake.

The dog room was much like most of the animal rooms, and very different from the human room they'd just left. It was quite narrow, consisting largely of a concrete floored-path that was flanked on either side by heavy, stainless steel cages. Behind the bars a number of their canine specimens were contained, normally snapping at the metal and any researchers that ventured too close. At the moment, however, their black and tan forms were all pressed to the far wall, putting as much distance between themselves and the mutated test subject. Wesker didn't blame them; in fact, he rather empathized with them. However, at least they had the relative safety of the bars between themselves and her, while all he had was Annette's body. Dubious protection at best.

The other Birkin was scrambling backwards on his hands and feet, trying to distance himself from the subject lumbering his way. For her part, the creature wasn't really paying him all that much attention. Her gaze was locked onto Annette, and her twisted features seemed to be attempting a rather primitive simulacrum of befuddlement. "Mother," she rasped out again, and Wesker might've been imagining it—_had_ to be, the girl couldn't possibly have any capacity for emotion remaining—but her rough voice sounded plaintive, her tone almost pleading.

"Stop calling me that," Annette snapped, bringing the rifle to bear.

At that moment, the subject's foot came down on William's ankle, and the scientist responded by swinging his pipe into her knee. With a disgruntled shriek, the subject kicked the hapless man further down the hall, into the kill space. He slid up against one of the anesthesia tables, groaning lightly as he placed a hand delicately over his side.

That was all the provocation Annette needed to open fire again. Though the bullets were as ineffective against her skin as ever, Wesker reasoned that the barrage might still be enough to cause unseen internal damage. It had to be doing _something_, for there was no other reason for the subject to react as she did. Tipping her head back, the subject let out a mournful wail and dashed away, leaping first onto the anesthesia table, then hopping the short distance to the counter against the far wall of the room. Annette kept up a steady stream of fire in the subject's wake, but Wesker didn't bother adding his own volley into the mix. It was obvious where she was headed, and thus, obvious that she was already in retreat.

Annette didn't stop firing until the subject had ripped the grill off the ventilation shaft and disappeared behind it, warbling repetitions of the word "mother" over and over again, until eventually the sound of her voice grew too soft to be heard. With an exhausted, overwrought sigh, Annette lowered the rifle.

"Well, that's _that_," she said, voice trembling slightly. "Good thing, too. I think I'm almost out of bullets."

"I wouldn't be surprised," Wesker responded sardonically, "given the way you were burning through them."

"Well _someone_ had to take up the slack for you, since you weren't bothering to lift a finger yourself," Annette shot back before moving over to William's side. "Are you alright?" she asked softly, bending down beside the fallen scientist. Wesker inwardly scoffed at her concern; obviously William was fine, he hadn't even gotten _shot_ yet.

"I'm good," Birkin wheezed, confirming Wesker's assumption. "She just kicked the wind right out of me." While he attempted to catch his breath, Wesker saw no reason as to why he couldn't do the same. He sank down to the ground in the middle of the hall, ignoring the dogs that were starting to regain their bravery and resume their fearsome snarling. He swiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, feeling vaguely sick.

"Well, now that we're all in one piece," Annette said, looking between William and Wesker with an unmistakable expression of apprehension, "what do we do now?"

"What we should have done an hour ago," Wesker replied gruffly. "Get the hell out of here."


	9. Claustrophobia

**So up until this point—or half this chapter, rather—the story has been following my draft fairly consistently. But then I decided to rewrite the second half of the story, starting with this chapter...and I accidentally made this chapter really long. Like, four times the length of a standard one. Once I realized that I said "holy f*ck" and chopped the beast in half, but that still means it's twice as long as usual. And unless I get chop-happy when editing the other half, the next chapter's even longer. Anyways, the point of that whole explanation is simply: "Long chapter ahead, guys".  
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><p>Wesker took the lead, left arm dangling conspicuously at his side as he tried to stay upright without the aid of any of the nearby walls. The Birkins followed at some distance behind him, Annette helping support William as they muttered anxiously amongst themselves. Wesker listened to their stilted conversation in silence, largely because he had nothing to add himself and also because he rather doubted that they would have paid his comments any mind even if he had bothered to make them.<p>

Pulling back a lip, Wesker glared at the far end of the hall. He was _always_ the third wheel when those two were together.

"Why did she keep calling you mother?" William asked, wheezing softly with every step. It was hard to believe he'd been so badly injured simply from being tossed into a door and then kicked. The man was absolutely pathetic.

Annette sounded perplexed. "How should I know? I don't even know what that thing was, although it sure seems like you boys have a better idea on that score than I do."

William let out a nervous chuckle, then waited a full minute or two before reluctantly explaining about the subject's particular role in their many experiments. "But she was always catatonic. We always thought her brain was completely fried," he concluded.

"Apparently not," Annette quipped dryly. "Still, even if she did wake up, how did she get loose?"

Wesker was wondering that himself. They'd neither had time nor inclination to investigate the heavy security door that guarded her room—established more in the spirit of keeping all but Marcus' most trusted employees out, rather than her in—but he was fairly certain that not even the subject could force her way out of it. The foot-thick, reinforced barrier was on an entirely different level than the other lab doors.

"Maybe she ambushed whoever was supposed to check in on her today," William offered. "Who knows? Umbrella can look into that later; I just want to get out of here."

The conversation stagnated at that level, neither Birkin willing to entertain any other topics at the moment; escape had taken precedence. Wesker was grateful for it. As the three moved into the fourth floor hall, William finally realized where Wesker was taking them.

"Oh, not the elevator," he whined.

"Fastest way to the surface," Wesker reminded him laconically. With the subject still at large, the last thing he wanted to do was dally in the stairwells.

"Yeah, but...I mean..." Birkin protested weakly, dragging his feet and just wasting precious time in general as he dithered uncertainly in the middle of the hall. Wesker actually had to turn around and stare him down, since the threat of being left behind wasn't enough to spur the recalcitrant man into motion. Birkin continued to protest nonetheless. "It's just...the elevator is so small, and cramped," he tried to explain, pantomiming a box with his hands, just in case Wesker had somehow forgotten what the inside of an elevator looked like. "If she found us in there...there'd be nowhere to run...we'd be slaughtered."

"The same applies to the stairwell," Wesker pointed out. "Besides, how would she attack us once we're in the car? Once those doors close, she'd have to be in the shaft to be able to reach us, and she has very little reason to venture in there. Not to mention the fact that she wouldn't possibly have had enough time to relocate to that area yet, so if you'd pick up your feet and _move_, we shouldn't have any problems." He started off back down the hall; he wasn't about to let William lead them into another deathtrap.

"Come on, William," Annette urged her husband gently. "You know, he's probably right..."

"Oh, Annette," Birkin sighed. "You don't understand..." But he didn't explain himself any further, and he gave in to her urgings, so as far as they were all concerned, the matter was settled.

Wesker called down the elevator from the second floor—no one had attempted to use it since they'd seen it last, and he idly wondered what that signified. There wasn't too much time for contemplation, however, for hardly a minute later the elevator arrived with a ding and the doors slid aside, buffeting the three researchers in the fetid odors that had been trapped in the tiny space. Annette gasped and took half a step back, hand moving to block her nose. Birkin grimaced, looking slightly off-color but otherwise resigned to the impending ordeal. Wesker was unaffected, being far too preoccupied with the throb in his shoulder and the threat of the lurking subject to pay his immediate surroundings much mind.

Avoiding the headless body still scrunched in one corner—though he did bother to kick the severed head out into the hall—Wesker took his place in the car and jabbed the first floor button. How long had it been since he'd been up there last? No more than an hour, he was sure, but it certainly felt as though it had been a lifetime ago. As the Birkins filed reluctantly into the elevator beside him and the doors slid shut, locking them inside, Wesker let his eyes flutter closed, hoping desperately that their ordeal was at its end.

The elevator began its ascent with a small jolt, and Wesker forced his eyes open again. They weren't out of the woods, and he couldn't afford to relax his vigilance just yet. To occupy his time, he gave each of his companions a cursory appraisal, searching them for visible wounds. Birkin looked well enough, though a bruise might have been in its first stages of formation on his right cheek. Annette was a grimmer sight due to the blood covering almost every inch of her clothing, but Wesker was pretty sure that most of it wasn't hers, given how articulate and coherently she was acting. So far she'd done nothing to give him cause to suspect massive blood loss. She had, however, acquired a particularly nasty gash shaped like a sideways "L" across her forehead. The longer arm ran parallel to her hairline almost across the entire length of her face, while the short arm reached to the outer tip of her right eyebrow; though it was dry now, it was evident that the wound had at one time bled profusely, leaving her a horrifying sight to behold. Annette, however, seemed oblivious to this injury.

William wasn't about to point it out, since he was clearly far more engaged in staving off his relentless nausea. Wesker wasn't going to enlighten her either, since it wouldn't do them any good whatsoever. Annette apparently did not share this sentiment, though, for she was quick to point out Wesker's own injury. "What happened to your arm?" she asked, voice distorted annoyingly by the hand she had blocked her nose with.

"Perhaps you should ask your husband th—"

Blackness. Blackness and complete silence fell over them as the elevator suddenly stopped in its tracks. Somewhere beside him, William let out a small, fretful moan. Annette whispered something about the power, but Wesker had already pushed his companions to the back of his mind.

The power had quite obviously been cut off, and he very much doubted that a researcher had been responsible for it. Instead, he was almost certain that in some places of the facility, the ventilation shafts ran parallel to the maintenance corridors interspersed throughout the walls. It was not inconceivable that the subject should escape the ventilation system only to find herself in one such space, and from there it was easy to imagine her wreaking havoc on the exposed wires and piping that supplied the building with all its electrical and chemical needs. And that thought was rather terrifying, because if she had run afoul of the power lines, she might have just as likely barreled her way through the gas main. For all he knew, the facility could be slowly filling with highly volatile gases.

As if they hadn't had enough to worry about before. Frowning darkly, he squinted into the interior of the elevator. There was nothing for his night vision to pick up on, and even as his eyes adjusted to the dark the space around him was as inscrutable as before. He didn't need to see, however, to be able to discern that William was falling into the throes of another inconvenient panic attack. Not when the man rudely shoved his way past him and began clawing frantically at the door.

"Oh god," he moaned, breath whistling through his teeth in ragged pants. "Oh god, we're dead! We need to get out! Get out of here!" His scrabbling at the doors morphed into pounding as he went from claws to fists. "We—have—to—get—_out!_"

"William!" Annette was taken aback by her husband's sudden frenzy, but she did her best to soothe him. Wesker could hear her trying to wrestle the distraught man away from the doors, but William was having none of it.

"Get me out of here!" he groaned out, and Wesker heard the doors let out a small squeal of protest as the young man tried to pry them apart. Even in his adrenaline-fueled panic, however, he wasn't strong enough to separate them completely, and Wesker heard him collapse to the floor in defeat. Annette resumed her attempts at consolation, but the man was quickly lapsing into unresponsiveness, his awareness limited only to the immediate dangers of their predicament.

"Trapped...trapped...we're dead...we have to...we're dead...get out..."

William kept up a steady stream of fear-filled chatter as Wesker scanned the elevator's interior with his blind eyes. Well, it wasn't _completely_ black, he realized. A narrow shaft of dim red light was filtering into the elevator from the seam between the doors; he quickly identified it as belonging to the emergency—and therefore battery-powered—lights of whatever corridor the elevator had been ascending towards. Probably not the first, he reasoned, since they hadn't been in the elevator long enough for that trip, but maybe the second floor...if they were lucky.

If they could somehow get the doors working again, they _might_ be able to climb up onto the floor's ledge. Maybe. He had his doubts about the efficacy of that plan, since without any power they'd have to muscle the doors apart themselves, and none of them was in top form at the moment.

Annette's voice was droning on in the background, and it took Wesker a solid minute to realize she was speaking to him. He didn't need to ask her to repeat herself—not that he would have, in the first place—because she'd noticed his inattention and had resorted to repeating the same phrase over and over again, assuming correctly that eventually he would deign to take notice of her. "Do you think the elevator has an escape hatch?" she asked for the umpteenth time, exasperation leeching all the inflection from her voice and rendering the question into more of a bland declaration instead of a point of curiosity.

"Possibly," Wesker replied quickly, if only to put an end to her repetitions. In truth he had no idea, but wasn't it standard practice to install such doors in case the cars required some sort of maintenance? Wesker scowled into the darkness. Who was he kidding? He'd never given a damn about the matter before, and the correct answer to her question could easily go either way.

There was one thing he did know, however. If such a hatch existed, they would have a bitch of a time finding it. No one was going to want to put their hands anywhere near the gore-soaked floor, and the ceiling was out of reach to all but him. And he could only lift one arm.

"Well, maybe we should look for it," Annette ventured, when it became clear that Wesker wasn't about to expand upon his curt and utterly indeterminate response.

"Be my guest," was Wesker's biting reply; he wasn't about to exhaust himself on futile quests that could bear no desirable fruit. After all, what did she expect to do once she found the fabled hatch? That would only put them in the shaft, which was hardly any more favorable than the elevator's interior. At least they probably had some protection against the subject so long as they stayed in the car, though truthfully Wesker wouldn't have staked his life on that assumption.

"Oh my god," William gasped out; judging from the position of his voice, Wesker guessed that he was in one of the corners on the floor. It would've been a good place to start in the search for the mythical hatch, save for the fact that Birkin was quite obviously mentally unfit for that task. He could hear Annette's fingers tapping diligently over the elevator's linoleum flooring, however; she was apparently unaffected by the blood. Then again, it wasn't as though she could really get any _more_ bloodied than she already was...

After a minute—or two, or ten—Annette realized Wesker wasn't breaking his own back to help her. "Are you just going to sit there all day or are you planning on getting your ass in gear?" she snapped. Wesker preferred to think she would only dare speak to William with that tone, but he was well aware that her comment was directed at him. This knowledge did not please him.

"It's useless," he sneered. "If there is a hatch, it isn't going to do us any good."

"You don't know that," she protested, voice rising in pitch as he so blithely put down her only hope of salvation.

"Where do you expect us to _go?_" he countered, leaning up against the dead button panel. "Do you expect us to simply rappel down the shaft? That's hardly going to help us."

She made a sound of frustration in the back of her throat, and he could easily envision her throwing up her hands in consternation. "Well, we can't just _stay_ in here," she retorted with asperity. "If we could find that damn hatch, we could at least get some fresh air in here!"

Well, he wasn't about to verbally concede her point, but there was a measure of truth to her statement. The elevator was tiny, and the air had already gone well past its expiration date before they'd even boarded. The putrid atmosphere was only worsening with each breath they took, and with Birkin hyperventilating in a corner, the number of those was rapidly escalating at an unstoppable pace.

Annette went back to clawing at the floor, her nails scraping across the tiles with a new sense of urgency. Wesker left her to it, returning to his scrutiny of the narrow bar of red light filtering through the crack in the door. The woman at his feet made some nearly inaudible comment about the uselessness of men, but Wesker was willing to let it slide for now. That light...there _had_ to be a way...

With a yelp, Annette backpedaled rapidly, crashing into him and smashing his bad shoulder against the wall of the elevator. White spots dotted the blackness of his sight, and he had to grit his teeth to prevent himself from crying out involuntarily. With one strong shove, he sent her stumbling to the other end of the elevator, where he heard her collide with William. She didn't seem to notice.

"The body," she babbled frantically. "The body moved!"

_Impossible_. Wesker had quite forgotten about their deceased guest up until that moment, largely because it couldn't have posed much of a threat to any of them.

"Impossible," he repeated aloud, sticking his foot out experimentally as he searched for the downed scientist.

"N-no, I definitely felt it touch me," Annette insisted, voice abnormally high. Good lord, why did both Birkins have to be so prone to hysteria? Annette had been doing so well in that regard, too. Such a pity.

"Are you certain it was not you that initiated the contact?" Wesker drawled, feeling the leather tip of his shoe make contact with something limp and fleshy on the floor.

"Quite," Annette replied tremulously. "Oh, god, what if this thing starts a biohazard? You said that you've tested all your viruses on her! God only knows what she could be spreading!"

"She shouldn't be spreading _anything_," Wesker corrected her. "The subject absorbed everything we threw at her. She underwent a few mutations, but there was never a rapid explosion of viral replication like we saw in the other animals tested. She doesn't have enough free virions in her system to pass on anything to any of her victims." He actually had no idea if that was true, but he doubted that any other response would calm Annette down. Besides, it was all a moot point anyways.

"Even if she could spread it, however, _this_ body still wouldn't be moving," he pointed out dryly. "It isn't going to reanimate anytime soon so long as it's missing its head, something you _should_ already know." Wesker crouched down next to the body in question, prodding at it with his hand for good measure. There was no discernible reaction to his ministrations, so he straightened up and returned to his previous position near the door. "Do try to keep your mental faculties in order," he suggested acidly.

"No need to be such a prick about it," Annette replied testily. "We're all stuck in this together, and your sarcastic condescension isn't helping the situation at all."

Wesker bared his teeth at the darkness. "If not for you, I wouldn't even be in this mess," he informed her.

"_I didn't drag you down here!_" Annette hissed.

"William did!" Wesker shot back, then immediately regretted it for the exact reasons that Annette was quick to point out. Namely, the idea that Birkin had any control over him whatsoever, which was absolutely laughable.

"So what, I'm supposed to believe that my husband was able to bring you down here against your will?" Annette let out a small, disparaging laugh. "Forgive my language, but that's a load of bullshit and you know it. You wouldn't have come down here unless you damn well wanted to."

Wesker scowled in her direction for a minute, pausing to let his rising ire sink back down to less murderous levels. "The fool was going to get himself killed," he growled out, as if Birkin wasn't within earshot. Given the man's extended panic attack, however, it was doubtful that anything Wesker was saying was registering in the young man's brain. "We need him for the T project. If the only way to keep him alive was to find you, then I really had no choice, did I?"

"Altruistic as ever," Annette sneered, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. "William's the only friend you've got, and yet you'd still throw him to the wolves if that would somehow advance your career."

"I'd throw you to them for a lot less," Wesker snarled back.

"Please. Forget the wolves, you'd kill me yourself and enjoy every minute of it."

There was no way he could argue against that. There had certainly been a few days where he'd almost gleefully imagined Annette strapped down to one of their tables, nothing more than another specimen for their viral research. Unfortunately William would never allow it, so long as he remained so disgustingly attached to her. But that might change eventually. Someday. The corners of Wesker's mouth twitched upwards into a smirk.

"Oh my god, you aren't even going to try to deny it." Annette let out another laugh, one more incredulous than anything else, and Wesker heard her slide down to the floor. "You're a goddamn sociopath. I always suspected, but was never sure until no—"

"Shut up," Wesker growled. He'd had enough of her voice to last him a lifetime already, and she was just wasting whatever good air they had remaining with her trite little speeches.

"Touchy as ever," Annette grumbled, and she was goddamn lucky he couldn't see her, for there was nothing more he wanted to do at that moment than throttle the life right out of her contrary little body.

For a while they all simply sat there in the elevator, silently consumed in their own respective thoughts with nothing but the raspy sounds of William's desperate breaths to remind them of their dire circumstances. Well, the darkness also filled that role rather well, Wesker thought. And the smell. Despite his earlier tolerance, it was really starting to get to him. The aroma of death and decay was so strong he could practically feel it coating his tongue, and every time he swallowed it was impossible to keep the grimace off his face. He was glad then for the darkness, for no one else was privy to the display. Though he doubted the Birkins were fairing much better.

Annette was the first to snap, only because Birkin had gone around the bend so early in the game that he'd been disqualified from the sanity contest a long time ago. "Oh my god," she moaned out, and he heard a small _thunk_ as she banged something solid against the wall of the elevator. "No one's coming to rescue us. We've _got_ to get out of here on our own. The sooner the better."

There were a few snarky comments that came to Wesker's mind in response, but he didn't really feel like wasting his breath on them. Instead, he decided to be constructive, or as much as one could be in such a situation. "We need to force the door open," he sighed, his mind trying and failing to conjure up possible methods for achieving that task.

"I considered that earlier," Annette responded flatly, no trace of her earlier rancor in her tone as she seriously mulled over his suggestion. "But we don't have the proper tools for the job, and I don't think any of us are strong enough to wrench them open without mechanical assistance."

"We don't have another option."

"Well...I guess we're stuck, then," Annette replied, frustration coloring her tone. "Maybe the power will come back on its own."

Wesker highly doubted that; if the blackout had been caused by the subject, then it wasn't something flipping a few breakers could fix. _If_ there was even anyone out there trying to fix it. He was pretty sure the lab doors would open manually without the aid of electricity, but the subject was still out there somewhere. Any prospective electrician would most likely find himself in her claws the minute he stepped out of the lab. With a small groan, Wesker dropped his machine gun and tugged his fingers through his hair, his mind racing, desperately seeking some sort of answer to their predicament—

_The gun_.

Well, admittedly it wasn't the _best_ plan, although in the absence of any alternatives it was looking to be the best simply by default. "Annette," Wesker broke the silence slowly. "The rifle. Can you use it as a leverage device?"

"What, like, between the doors? Maybe…" she replied, sounding doubtful. "I think I could at least fit the front of the muzzle in there…" There was a shuffling sound as she moved towards the door of the elevator, and then the small scratch of metal against metal as she tried to find the narrow gap between the two doors. "Yeah," she said at last, more than a little uncertain. "I can get it in, but not very far. I'm not going to be getting much leverage out of this setup."

"Hold it there," Wesker instructed, "and see if you can't pull the doors apart a bit and get it in further." As he explained it, he reached across the doors himself, seeking out the seam with his good hand. There was barely enough space for his fingertips, but it was enough for him to get a grip. "Now pull."

The doors were actually more forgiving than he expected, but then again, they'd been in the building for as long as he had, and he was pretty sure they hadn't been new back then, either. They slid open an inch before catching, and he heard Annette wrestle the rifle through the gap. "Well, it's still not in there all the way," she reported critically.

"I'll keep pulling," Wesker said. "Push on the gun's stock and see if we can't get these open the rest of the way."

Annette gave him a doubt-filled affirmative before pressing all her weight against the pinned weapon. Wesker put in as much effort as his arm allowed, and they both felt the door give way. Annette cursed as the rifle nearly slipped from her hands, and she presumably replaced the weapon with her own body once the gap was wide enough, for the doors kept sliding apart. And then they were open to the hoist way, as dark a place as the interior of the elevator. Wesker loosened his grip on the doors, and when they did not automatically retract, he stepped away from the opening. Annette had also retreated further inside, panting slightly from exertion. "So...now what?" she asked. The hoist way was still closed off by another damnable set of doors.

Based on the red light filtering through the cracks in these doors, however, he could tell that they'd been caught between the landings; the landing in question being about level with his armpits. The lower landing was more accessible for that reason, but he didn't want to go further down. He _wanted_ to go to the goddamn surface. "We need to open the hoist door," he replied, with no ideas or suggestions on how to do that.

There was a rustle of clothing, and then a vague shadow of movement near the lip of the elevator. Annette was poking around. He could hear her scratching at the lower door, and his brows drew downwards sharply. "We need to open the _top_ door," he informed her. "You're wasting time down there."

"There's some sort of catch or lock on these things," she announced, completely ignoring him. "I can't get at it with my hands...but maybe if I had something small...well, the scalpel might work."

"The top door," Wesker insisted, and he heard Annette finally pause in her tinkering.

"I'm not going to be able to reach the lock on that door," she retorted. "The elevator isn't high enough up for that. I can't exactly fit my arm between the car and the door, you know. It's only a few inches wide."

"It shouldn't be that difficult," Wesker pointed out. "Surely you could squeeze in there somehow."

Annette let out a small bark of a laugh. "Okay, genius. Let's say I could. I'm still not _tall_ enough to reach the lock, unless _someone_ gives me a boost. And I think we both know how likely that is to happen." She resumed her workings on the bottom door with new fervor.

Wesker frowned, unwilling to accept her assertions as true, yet equally unwilling to take the measures required to make them false. So he bent down next to her instead, searching for the so-called lock. It didn't take him very long to find, not with Annette scraping loudly away at it, but touching it himself hardly helped their situation. All he could say about it was that it was a chunk of metal, roughly rectangular, with a small slot that might've held the catch. But the slot was too thin for him to work his finger into; Annette's strategy was probably better in that regard.

He withdrew his hand as the metallic clicks of Annette's tool drew closer to it; the last thing he wanted or needed now was an eviscerated finger.

There was a long pause, ended abruptly by a smart little click and the snick of small metal parts retracting. "Oh, hey," Annette exclaimed with surprise. "I think I got it." She reached forward, hands blotting out the red light as they sought out the seam between the doors. Wesker moved aside in time to avoid any accidental jostling of his shoulder, then waited while she pushed the hoist doors apart.

The interior of the car was immediately flooded with crimson light and slightly less soiled air. One glance down the corridor was all Wesker needed to ascertain that they were looking at the third floor. They'd only advanced _one floor_. Had the elevator not failed, they could have been halfway down Arklay by this time.

Well, a little progress was better than no progress at all, he had to grudgingly admit. Though the closest stairs were at the opposite end of the hall they were currently facing, and that meant a lot more walking in the open than Wesker had originally wanted to engage in.

"Well," Annette sighed, slapping her hands down on her thighs as she started to push herself back onto her feet, "that'll have to do. Unless you've got any better suggestions?" She gave Wesker a quelling look, just daring him to defy her.

How irksome. He was tempted to do just that, save for the fact that he had no other options to propose. Still, he could think of a few activities that Annette could personally engage in, and was just about to suggest them when a noise suddenly startled him into silence.

_thunk_

Annette's brow crinkled, and fresh blood oozed from her head wound. "What...?" she started to whisper, only to break off when the sound repeated itself, coming from somewhere down the hall.

_thunk_

It was louder that time, more forceful. Visibly gulping, Annette stepped back, retreating deeper into the elevator car.

_thunk thunk thunk_

There was a definite rhythm to the sound, each one louder and more insistent than the last. Wesker edged back from the open doors himself, ducking back around to the button panel until only his face was exposed to the corridor. The sounds were definitely getting louder, but the hallway was also definitely as empty as it had been before. So then where—

_thunk thunk thunk _—

_Ah, above_, Wesker realized, at about the same time one of the ceiling grates exploded outward, rocketing into the concrete floor below as something pushed it down with tremendous force.

With a small gasp, Annette lunged forward, grabbed Birkin's impassive form, and pulled him against her. Scooting back quickly, she huddled both of their bodies against the wall of the elevator, out of sight of the hall. Wesker jerked his own face back as well, but not before he saw the hulking form of the test subject drop down from the hole in the ceiling.

* * *

><p><strong>When I first wrote this, Annette and Wesker were never supposed to be that antagonistic to one another. At least not so blatantly. But that's just how it turned out. Oh well; it's more fun to write this way.<strong>


	10. Cannibal

**Mmm, it's been a productive week for me. I don't think I'll miss an update again, unless some sort of catastrophic event occurs.**

* * *

><p>The subject landed with a thud and a grunt, the metal grate crackling beneath her weight. Wesker and Annette froze, sharing one brief, wide-eyed glance as the test subject began to take in a few snuffling, gulping breaths; they sounded a bit like sobs. Birkin started to struggle against Annette's hold, apparently oblivious to the danger they were in, and Annette had to clamp a hand over his mouth to keep him from audibly protesting her grip. This did not calm him, and his struggles became even more frantic as he began clawing at her arms, kicking out his legs weakly all the while.<p>

Out in the hall, Wesker could hear the subject's feet slapping over the concrete floor as she slowly zigzagged from one wall of the corridor to the other. Was she looking for something? He couldn't even to begin to fathom _what_ her motivations were, but he knew that if she didn't beat it soon, Birkin was going to blow their cover and then they'd all be dead.

Catching Annette's eye, Wesker pantomimed putting Birkin out of his misery with one well-aimed blow to the head. He was met with a look of consternation.

_Are you crazy?_ Annette mouthed, shaking her head disparagingly.

Wesker just a jabbed a finger towards the subject, not needing to say or mouth anything else. His point was clear.

Annette still wasn't buying it. Clenching her jaw, she stared stubbornly at the back wall of the car as Birkin twisted in her arms and the subject continued to plod around outside, hardly twenty feet from their position. Wesker focused on the back wall as well, his mind whirring. If the subject did realize they were there, what could they do to save themselves?

_Nothing_, his brain informed him dispassionately, but the survivalist in him argued that there had to be something. There was the _gun_, for instance...but what were a few more bullets going to do when so many of their brethren had already failed?

A dull metallic thump sounded off from somewhere down the hall, quickly followed by a brittle crash. With a small snort, the subject's footsteps receded; Wesker chanced a glance out the open door of the elevator in time to see a few trailing tentacles disappear into one of the distant labs.

Rolling forward onto the balls of his feet, Wesker scurried over to where Annette was attempting to restrain William. "We need to go," he hissed, "and we need to go _now_."

"Go _where?_" Annette shot back through clenched teeth. "She's between us and the stairs, in case you didn't notice! We'll never get past without drawing her attention!"

"We have to go up," Wesker said, pointing towards the hoist way door above them.

Annette shook her head. "Like I said, I _can't_—"

"You don't have a _choice_," Wesker growled. "You know how to open the locks now; it should be easier to do it a second time."

"But I can't reach it!"

Letting out a small huff of dissatisfaction, Wesker rolled his shoulders—both of them—experimentally. He was met with instantaneous and blindingly acute resistance from the crippled one, but it was manageable—just barely, but there it was, nonetheless. "I can give you a boost," he stated dully, unenthusiastically. Of all the things he didn't want to do, this was definitely high on the list. But dying was undeniably worse.

Annette gave him a skeptical look. "You sure about that? Your arm looks pretty bad, you know."

"Yes, I am_ aware_," Wesker informed her dryly. "It will be fine. It's worse than it looks."

She did not appear reassured. "You realize that the only way I'll be able to reach the lock is if I'm sitting on your shoulders, right? You're _sure_ you can handle that?"

Wesker gave her a quick appraisal, eyes sweeping coldly from the crown of her head to her toes and back up again. "I should think so," he replied. "You seem to have lost most of that ungainly pregnancy fat now that the brat's been born."

Annette's expression of polite concern immediately dropped into a carefully neutral face; Wesker could tell that wrath was brimming just beneath the surface, and he had to fight to keep the smirk off his own face.

"Okay," she said curtly. "I'm convinced. Take a knee."

Not one to blithely accept orders from those beneath him, Wesker simply gave her a glare instead. When a growl filtered towards them from down the hall, however, he decided to revise his current plan of action. There would be plenty of time to get revenge on her later for this humiliation, and so he knelt down far enough for Annette to clamber onto his shoulders.

It hurt more than he expected, and getting back to his feet took all the strength he could muster. Steadying himself with a hand on the floor indicator at the front of the elevator, he let out a puff of breath. "You're heavier than you look," he blackly commented.

"Oh, sorry," Annette responded snidely. "Guess I haven't lost all that _pregnancy fat_ after all." And then she purposefully ground her weight down on his bad shoulder.

Wesker's vision blackened as a bomb went off in his arm; Annette let out a small yelp and buried her fingers into his hair as his knees gave out and they both went plunging towards the floor. He managed to catch himself before they got that far, though he was shaking badly as he latched back onto the elevator wall and straightened. "Do _not_ do that again," he bit out, feeling sick to his stomach and more than just a little disposed towards throwing her down the hall for the test subject's enjoyment.

"Right, right," Annette babbled, refusing to relinquish the death grip she had on his hair even after he'd regained his footing. "Uh, sorry about that."

Wesker dismissed the apology with a grunt. "Just get the door open," he growled.

"I'll try," Annette hazarded, and then the pressure on Wesker's scalp eased as she placed one hand on the elevator's ceiling, steadying herself, and cautiously slid the other into the narrow gap between the top of the elevator and the hoist way door. It was not a comfortable position for her; sitting on his shoulders as she was, she had to hunch down and bend over to avoid smacking her head into the ceiling, all the while extending her arm as far up as it could go. But Wesker was hardly comfortable, either. "Ugh," she commented after an extended eternity of tinkering. "This is harder than I thought it would be."

Wesker didn't comment. All of his attention was currently channeled towards staying conscious and upright, but it was getting harder and harder to do both of those things with each passing second.

"Ow!" she exclaimed tightly, flinching suddenly and sending white-hot crackles of pain down his arm. "Son of a bi—"

"_Do_ hurry up," Wesker urged her, almost desperately. His head was beginning to feel alarmingly light.

"Going as fast as I can," she responded grimly. "I don't think the manufacturers of this device had a scalpel in mind when they were designing the lock."

"You did it before," Wesker reminded her, to which she only let out a small hum of acknowledgement before attacking the lock with a new sense of determination.

Between the clicks and clacks of Annette's frantic struggle with the lock, Wesker noticed that there was nothing but silence coming from William's corner. Well, that wasn't quite true—ragged breathing could still be heard—but the man seemed a lot quieter than he had been before. It was probably too much to hope that he'd regained control of himself, but Wesker tried to engage the man in conversation anyway. _Anything_ to take his mind off the pressure crushing down on his fragmented shoulder.

"How are you holding up, Will? Coherent yet?" Wesker forced out, shifting his weight between his feet in an effort to dispel some of his discomfort. It didn't work, and Annette let out a small sound of protest.

"Urp," was the man's initial reply, followed by a moan and a shaky, "I think I'm going to be sick."

"Just hold it down a little longer," Wesker replied warningly, inwardly surprised that Birkin was already capable of speech. "Once we get out of this wretched box you can vomit to your heart's content."

William didn't reply, but Annette made a small sound of victory. "Ha! Got you, you little bastard," she announced as the lock gave in with a small click. Wesker staggered as Annette suddenly threw her weight forward, seizing the hoist way doors and sliding them apart without warning. The elevator was rapidly flooded with a double-dose of red light as the second-floor corridor became visible.

To Annette, at least. Wesker's face was approximately level with the landing between the floors; he couldn't see much of anything.

"Brace yourself," Annette stated, and then, not bothering to give Wesker any time to realize what she planned to do, she planted her hands onto the floor of the corridor and pulled herself out of the elevator, pushing off of Wesker in the process. Wesker's vision swam with multicolored spots as he backpedaled and collided with the rear wall of the elevator; somewhere near his feet, William let out another moan.

"Well, that wasn't too hard," Annette commented to herself.

For her, maybe. But she'd had the advantage of height. Wesker had detected a certain problem with his own position, though; with only one shoulder working, he was going to have a hell of a time pulling himself up onto the landing. Annette crouched down on the floor, peering down at the trapped inhabitants of the car. "You've got to help me get William up here," she said.

Wesker didn't much appreciate her giving him orders, but since William was now moaning sickly in the corner, he didn't really want to be stuck in the small space with Birkin any longer, either. With a small sneer in Annette's direction—which she either ignored or didn't see—he sauntered over to where his friend was crouched and seized him by the arm, tugging him forcefully to his feet. Propelling him forward, he had to just as quickly tug him back when the man threatened to walk right out of the car and into the third floor corridor. "Pay attention," Wesker growled, though he could feel William's arm trembling wildly beneath his lab coat. He seemed to be in shock, though Wesker couldn't even begin to fathom why it had happened _now_, of all times.

Annette reached down into the car, and at her urging the young man lifted his hands and let her grab hold. From there Wesker had to seize the man by a leg and lift him as best as he could. It was hardly efficient or ideal for anyone, but eventually William's weight disappeared from his shoulder as Annette pulled him over the threshold of the landing. After she'd disposed of him somewhere, she returned to give Wesker a critical, appraising glance. "Need help getting out of there?" Her eyes were locked knowingly onto his bad shoulder.

Meeting her eyes, Wesker shook his head slowly, defiantly. Annette shrugged.

"Fine. But you should probably pass those guns up before you leave. It wouldn't be wise to leave them behind."

Wesker scowled at her tone, but he couldn't deny that she was right. He tossed his machine gun up first, then followed it with the rifle, which looked no worse the wear for its brief stint as a leverage device.

And then it was his turn. Setting his mouth into a grim line, Wesker began to pace at the edge of the car's opening, painfully aware of the height of the landing. There was no way he could get up it without utilizing his upper body in some manner, with or without Annette's help. It was going to be hell no matter how he proceeded.

Just as he was reaching up towards the landing with his good arm, movement down the hall caught his attention.

It was her.

The test subject.

At the worst possible moment she appeared, striding nonchalantly out of the lab as though she owned the place. She'd changed since they'd seen her last—not physically, there hadn't been any new mutations. Rather, her appearance was considerably more blood spattered and gore-smeared than before, suggesting she'd been doing more than just scuttling around the ventilation shafts while they'd been trapped in the elevator. Worst of all was the human arm she held in one hand; as Wesker watched, frozen in horrified fascination, she put it to her mouth and began to gnaw gently at the soft skin on the underside of the limb.

She just as quickly paused, however, when she noticed him standing there, exposed in the open elevator. The subject shambled to a halt, removed the limb from her mouth, and let it slap wetly to the floor. She cocked her head to the side, vacant eyes locking onto Wesker with an unnerving sense of recognition. The bridge of her nose wrinkled as she drew back her bloodstained lips, baring her teeth in a feral snarl.

That was all the prompting Wesker needed. Leaning forward, he seized first one hoist door, then the other, and slid them both shut even as the subject let out a scream. They moved easily, which was the only reason he was capable of moving them at all, but the lock did not reengage when he slammed them together. He had no way of keeping the subject from throwing them wide open again. He realized that at the same moment that the subject smashed her weight into the hoist way doors, which shuddered thunderously upon impact. Tentacles wormed their way between the seam, and all Wesker could do was quickly push himself up against the button panel, his good arm dragging the headless, crumpled corpse at the back of the car toward the doors.

If she wanted a body, she could have that one.

He flinched as the subject threw the doors open, and almost immediately her tentacles seized his offering and jerked it out of the car. From there he was treated to a vast array of wet tearing sounds as the subject went to town on the cooling body—either she thought it was him, or she didn't really care _whom_ she was mauling. All the while he could only press himself up against the wall of the elevator, doing his best impression of stainless steel and hoping the subject didn't actually try to enter the elevator.

Glancing above himself once, he noticed Annette looking down at him from the second floor corridor, one hand held out halfheartedly in a beckoning gesture. Her eyes were wide with barely-concealed panic, and Wesker was pretty sure his expression wasn't much different. Still, her offering was suicide. So long as the subject was less than an arm's length away, any attempt to climb onto the second floor from the elevator was only going to result in a violent end for him.

His heart thumping wildly in his chest, Wesker lowered his gaze onto the rear wall of the elevator and waited for the subject's next move. It was a long time in coming; her preoccupation with the body was total. Wesker wasn't entirely certain as to what she was doing with it, but the sounds he could make out left little to the imagination. It shouldn't have been disturbing—some of their infected had shown a particular predisposition towards cannibalism—but for some reason his feelings on the matter were entirely different when it was all happening less than three feet away. One wrong step on his part and he'd be changing places with that body, after all.

Eventually the wet slurps and fleshy ripping sounds tapered off, and for a moment all he could hear was the subject breathing, roughly snorting in air through her crushed-in nose. Belatedly he realized she was sniffing the air, trying to scent out more prey like a dog.

_How acute is her sense of smell?_

He'd never thought about it before, but it suddenly struck him as being very important. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of the subject's jaw and the upturned tip of her nose as she thrust the lower half of her face into the elevator. Silently sucking in a long breath, Wesker flattened himself against the wall as well as he could, the buttons pressing painfully into his spine. He waited for the subject to poke her head in fully, for her to notice him, but she didn't go that far. With a small grunt, the crooked jaw withdrew, and then he listened as the subject's heavy footfalls retreated back the way she'd come. Leaning to the side, Wesker risked a quick glance into the hall. Well beyond the pulpy remains of the body she'd just savaged, the subject was returning to where she'd dropped the arm earlier. Once she'd replaced the appendage in her mouth, she waltzed back into the far lab.

There was no telling how long he had before she came back out, but Wesker didn't care. He wasn't spending another second there on the floor with her. He looked up, and this time Annette didn't bother asking, just jabbed her hands down to him, and Wesker didn't even try to protest. Still, he knew she wasn't going to be able to haul up his weight alone—he'd need to help. To do that, he'd need to brace himself with his good arm, leaving Annette with few handholds, save for his bad arm.

That probably wouldn't go well, he rationalized.

Waving her hands away, he slapped his good palm down onto the cold concrete of the landing and pitched his weight forward, kicking off the floor with his feet at the same moment.

It wasn't enough; his injured body just wasn't strong enough. Gravity almost immediately reasserted itself, and it did so viciously, tugging him back towards the floor of the car with undisguised zeal. Wesker clawed at the concrete, which was useless—it had no grip to offer him—and then slammed his good elbow down in an attempt to pin himself in place. He stopped sliding backwards, but his position was precarious at best—one wrong move and he'd topple back into the car.

With a small frown of intense concentration, Wesker leaned over the landing, trying to bring his bad arm up. If he could just get his other elbow up to brace himself, the shoulder itself wouldn't matter—

Nope. The wounded mass of bone and muscle locked up, and he found extending his arm at all to be a complete impossibility. Almost as impossible as clinging to the concrete floor, for his good elbow was steadily sliding free from where he'd slapped it down.

Annette wasn't waiting for him to request her assistance. As he struggled with the floor, her hands fell onto his shoulders, searching for a hold on his lab coat. When she tugged at it, however, it did little to arrest his own progress backwards and did a lot more towards undressing him. Sensing the failure of that tactic, her hands fluttered about fretfully at the edges of his vision, uncertain as to where to land.

"No," Wesker spat out through clenched teeth. He knew what she was considering, just as much as he knew that it was probably the unavoidable course of action. He kicked his legs out into space, tying to propel his full weight up onto the landing, but it was useless.

"Look," she sighed in exasperation, flicking a wild strand of blood-slicked hair behind her ear. "Just suck it up. The faster we get you up, the faster we can get out of here."

Wesker didn't respond, being very much unable to, even had he wished to do so. Almost all of his weight had shifted back towards the elevator instead of the corridor floor, and as his hand slid closer to the edge, he could feel himself about to fall. He tried to brace a foot against something, anything in the elevator, but there was nothing there for it to catch against. It kicked out pointlessly; if only the subject hadn't thrown the hoist way doors open.

There was a sudden scream, and it hadn't come from him. Hadn't come from any of them.

Wesker's eyes widened and small, involuntary gasp escaped his lips as his hold finally gave out and gravity took over, jerking his body downwards. His good hand scrabbled uselessly at the floor as the rest of him slipped inexorably towards the car, nothing there to stop his imminent descent—

Save for Annette, who lunged forward at the first sign of panic in his eyes. Her splayed hands did not seek out the arm he had thrust out over the floor, nor did they go for his coat again. Instead, they wrapped around the wrist held close to his chest, and in a singular flare of agony wrenched his left arm forward.

It _hurt_. It hurt _a lot_. Blood flooded Wesker's mouth as his jaw closed on his tongue, and it took everything he had just to keep himself from verbalizing the scream resonating within the confines of his skull. Her decision had been the wisest course of action, of course—he knew that, even if only dimly—as to take his good arm would have forced Annette to somehow hold up all of his dead weight, but at the moment it was a struggle not to angrily and reflexively jerk his arm back and consign them both to the clutches of the subject.

And she was coming. He could hear her feet slapping out an enraged rhythm as she raced towards his legs, which still dangled down into the open car. He kicked them out manically, trying to propel himself to safety or at least keep her tentacles at bay, but they contacted only empty air.

"Pull, pull, pull," he chanted to Annette, voice hoarse with desperation and terribly, pathetically weak. His own good arm struck out against the concrete, doing what it could to pull him forward. But progress was too little and too slow. Something coiled around his ankle—not _some_thing, of course he _knew_ what it was—and yanked him down. The only reason he stayed where he was, more or less, was because of Annette's hold on his arm.

The second his bad shoulder became the focal point of the tug-of-war between the subject and Annette, his forehead crashed into the concrete as his awareness dissolved into bright lights, black spots, and piercing pain the likes of which he'd never felt before. That was all there was. At some point—it might have been only a few seconds later, it might've been ten years—Annette released him, and the ground whipped by as the subject gleefully reeled him in. Wesker let it happen, he didn't even have the presence of mind to struggle.

Before he got too far, however, Annette returned—though not gently. One knee came down and crushed the back of his hand, while the other landed on his elbow, effectively pinning him in place. He might have shouted, he wasn't really sure, and either way his cry would've been drowned out by a metallic rattle as Annette shoved the sub-machine gun between him and the elevator and fired it down into the face of the subject. The monster shrieked—at least, he imagined as much; the gunfire was deafening—and the tentacle wrapped around his ankle spasmed once, twice, before slipping loose.

Annette tossed the gun aside, rolled off of him, and immediately resumed her attempts at pulling him to safety, but it was slow going. "William, help me!" she cried, casting a desperate glance over her shoulder towards her husband, but Birkin was absolutely useless to them. His face was as white as the walls behind him would have been, under more normal circumstances, and all he seemed capable of doing was staring at them with wide, glassy eyes. With a furious curse Annette returned all her focus to tugging on Wesker's arm, and somehow even he was able to assist, his good arm weakly but relentlessly sliding him forward as his mind actively courted unconsciousness.

Eventually his center of gravity shifted as the bulk of his body made it up onto the landing; from there, Annette's job became much easier. Trapped in the car below, the subject was spitting mad. Though her tentacles and arms began to claw at the floor of the hall, the gap between the ceiling of the elevator and the floor was too narrow for her twisted form to get through. Once Wesker's feet were clear of danger from the subject's numerous appendages, Annette released his arm and sat, panting wildly.

With a strangled groan Wesker let his forehead fall to the mercifully cool floor, gentler, this time—there was a bruise there now.

The next thing he knew, Annette was shaking him awake.

"Come on," she urged him. "I know this sucks but we've got to do something before she finds a way up here."

Wesker blinked once, twice, then slowly, painfully looked over his shoulder towards the stalled elevator, where part of the subject's leering, enraged face could be seen. As soon as eye contact was established, the creature let out a furious scream, blood-flecked spittle spraying the concrete around the landing. The entire elevator rocked and groaned as she tried to barrel her way through the too-small gap.

"Out of sight," Wesker mumbled, then found his voice and tried again. "We have to get out of sight," he repeated, louder and more authoritative. "She'll lose interest." He pushed himself up tentatively, expecting trouble, but his shoulder had filled with a strange, icy numbness and at the moment wasn't giving him too much grief. He pointed to the nearest lab—already open, since the subject had apparently savaged the floor while they'd been in the elevator—and fought to get to his feet. "That will do."

"I hope you're right about that," Annette said warily, but she complied, moving to William's side and urging him up. He didn't move, hardly even reacted to her presence. "_William_," she tried again, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him. "Snap out of it."

"Just...drag him," Wesker ordered, shambling awkwardly over to the Birkins. He grabbed William by one shoulder with his good arm and motioned for Annette to do the same; the man offered up no resistance as they pulled him into the nearest lab.

It was mercifully clean, having apparently been unoccupied when the subject paid it a visit. They pulled him to a clear spot on the floor and propped him up against the lab benches; outside the subject's furious roars were tapering off into feral snarls.

"He's in some sort of shock," Wesker declared, somewhat annoyed. If anyone was to go into shock, it should be _him_. No one else had taken the hits he had. "Get him water," Wesker ordered, looking to Annette.

She pursed her lips at the command, but seemed to realize that now was not the time for arguing. She twisted on her heel and made for the nearest sink while Wesker eased himself down onto a nearby stool. The world had begun to sway around him again, the ground beneath him rolling like ocean swells caught in a storm. Grimacing, he pressed the heel of his hand into the bridge of his nose and tried to will the lightheadedness away. His mind cleared somewhat, though whether it was due to his efforts or his change in position, Wesker could not be sure.

After a moment Annette returned with a glass beaker filled nearly to the brim with clear water; she offered it to Birkin, but the man wasn't having any of it. He was still off in another world entirely. With a discontented grumble, Wesker pushed himself off the stool and staggered over to Annette, swiping the beaker out of her hands. And then, before she could stop him, he dashed the beaker's icy contents straight into Birkin's face.

_That_ elicited a reaction. With a startled gasp, Birkin recoiled violently into the bench, water streaming in rivulets down his face and neck. "I—wha—_why?_" he choked out, streaking his face with blood as he dragged a hand over his eyes to clear them.

"It's time to go," Wesker said flatly, tossing the beaker to the side. It shattered in a small tinkle of glass, the sound echoing eerily throughout the lifeless lab. "We're only two floors down. You can freak out once we get to the surface."

"Uh." Birkin shook his head once, scattering water droplets, before fixing Annette with a sheepish, apologetic grin. "Sorry. I didn't mean to lose it like that," he offered quietly, eyes falling to the floor.

Annette gave him a pat on the arm. "I know how you get about elevators and small spaces," she said with an understanding sigh that set Wesker's teeth on edge. Birkin's little _phobia_ had rendered him completely useless and undependable in their situation, the very situation he'd forced all of them into. Annette should have been biting his head off, not consoling him.

With a furious scowl, Wesker shouldered past the couple. "Let's go. The subject's too close for comfort."

As soon as the words left his lips, they were all startled by a thunderous crash from the hall. The three blonds froze and shared a wary look; Wesker and Annette then crept to the doorway while William pulled himself shakily to his feet. As he peered out cautiously into the corridor, Wesker noted that it was still rather quiet—no subject to be seen, since she'd vanished from the elevator—and despite the scattered and infrequent bloodstains, everything looked relatively normal.

Letting out the breath he didn't know he was holding, Wesker ducked back into the lab. "It must have come from the third floor," he stated, and that _was_ the most likely possibility. With the open elevator connecting the two floors and the hole in the middle of the corridor where the subject had broken through the grate, sound carried easily between the floors. Still, it meant that she was on the move in some way or another, and they had better do the same.

"We're taking the stairs this time, right?" William piped up, face dripping with water and fear.

Wesker gave him a flat stare. "Well, with the _power_ out, we don't have much else in the way of options, now do we?" he responded, voice remarkably dry considering how badly he wanted to punch the younger man in the face. It was, after all, impossible to ignore that everything that had recently happened was his fault—he had no right to be whining.

Annette was looking at the sub-machine gun in her hands. "I just wish we had more ammunition," she sighed. "I think I used up pretty much everything back when she grabbed onto you."

Wesker paused, and then looked back down the empty hall thoughtfully.

"That can be arranged..."


	11. Speed

**Watched the E3 demo of Chris' gameplay—Drunk Chris is awesome. I wish...I wish we could _play_ the campaign as drunk Chris. Someone should make a mod for that, somehow...though I suppose the easiest "mod" would really just be getting hammered and then playing RE6. **

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><p>"Well, so much for that," Annette commented as she leaned over Wesker's shoulder, searching the weapons cache for any sign of useable weapons. They hadn't locked up before leaving, and apparently at least one of the second-floor employees had raided the place. Most of the armaments—all the useful ones, at any rate—had been looted, and one could only wonder where they were now. Ammunition was also noticeably absent, though a minute of careful scrutiny revealed a full magazine of ammo for the rifle tucked behind a trashcan.<p>

There was no sub-machine gun ammunition, and after the elevator incident Wesker was willing to bet that they had about a quarter of the magazine remaining. He was hoping that they would have no cause to use any of their remaining firepower, but if it came to that...it seemed fair to suppose they _might_ be able to drive the subject back into a retreat again, if they were lucky.

If he was wrong about that...well, they wouldn't have long to agonize over it.

Schooling his disappointment behind a mask of casual indifference, Wesker exited the storeroom, fairly bowling over Annette in the process. Given the humiliation of having her pull him to safety, she was due a lot more than that, but it gave him a cheap little thrill to hear her small curse of indignation. He had to content himself with that small victory for now, especially since he couldn't exactly do anything worse to her in front of William. Not that William would particularly notice. Even though his sanity had returned—as much as it ever would, more or less—the man was still flighty, starting at every unexpected sound or touch, and he kept up a constant watch up and down the hall as he rubbed his hands together, mournfully lamenting the loss of his spear/pipe. Between him and the wife that was constantly getting in his way, Wesker was fairly fed up with both of his companions.

Luckily, the nearest stairwell was just around the corner. Once they reached that, it would be easy to climb up the few flights of stairs remaining, regardless of how exhausted they all were. Best of all, so long as the subject remained below them and they stayed in the stairwell, it was unlikely they'd see her again. Then it was just a matter of dropping Umbrella a line and telling them they had a mess to clean up...and everything would be back to normal by Tuesday. Well, all but his shoulder. He'd probably have to shoot William just to make it even.

Unfortunately, things were never so simple.

The minute Wesker rounded the corner he saw that something was wrong with the entrance to the stairs. Apparently it had been locked, and someone or something had tried to force their way into the corridor despite that fact. The entire door bulged outwards into the hall, connected to the frame at only three points—the hinges and the catch of the lock. Despite that, it was still standing, which was surprising. The lab doors were much sturdier. after all, and the subject had torn through those with ease. Apparently her heart hadn't been in it this time.

"Shit," William commented, taking in the damage with wide eyes. "How close is the other stairwell?"

"Other end of the facility," Annette answered. She watched as Wesker warily approached the busted door. "You think we can get past that?"

"The subject has practically done the work for us," Wesker pointed out. "A bit more force and we can probably remove the whole door." He examined the frame critically, trying to peer into the dark depths of the stairwell through the gaping cracks the warped door had created. "However, we do not know how recently she did this. She could still be in the well."

"Do you think she's still trying to get us?" Annette asked. "I mean, is she capable of that much...thought? Or does she only attack what's in front of her?"

"We haven't worked that out yet," Wesker replied, dropping his gun and laying his hand over the door's handle. He gave it an experimental tug, but the door remained resolutely locked in place.

So close. They were _so close_.

He glanced into the dark gap again. It was easily wide enough for him to fit an arm through. Perhaps the door could be opened by twisting the handle on the inside? It didn't seem likely, but it was probably worth a try. Except he couldn't do it, not with his left arm in the condition it was in.

"Ann—" he began to call out, halting prematurely when a flicker of movement behind the door caught his attention. He had a split second's worth of warning before a thick arm shot through the gap, and that was not nearly enough time for his battered body to react. The large hand fisted in his shirt, knobby knuckles resting right above his heart.

Then, as quickly as it had shot out, the arm retracted, carrying Wesker along with it.

Of course, there was no way he was following it back through the crack; the gap was not nearly big enough. Instead his body simply smashed face-first into the door before falling limp in stunned senselessness.

He recovered quickly despite the fresh blood flowing from his traumatized sinuses and began to claw one-handedly at the creature's hold, trying to free his shirt from her grasp. That didn't work, however, and he was just beginning to contemplate wriggling out of his shirt entirely—crippling shoulder injury be damned—when a deafening roar sounded off from right behind the door. It was surprising enough to shock him into brief inactivity, and in that transient moment the subject proved that the door really was no problem for her at all. With a simple thrust of her body it burst into the hall, breaking from its hinges with a few loud pops. The freed door sailed through the air, nearly clipping William in the shoulder before rebounding off the far wall.

The Birkins immediately fell back, dropping behind the corner for cover, and while Wesker could understand their tactic he didn't much like the sense of abandonment it left him with. He didn't have long to contemplate it, though, before the subject gave chase, pulling him along in tow. The most he could do was wrap a hand around her wrist in an attempt to keep himself upright as she raced forward, his feet slipping and sliding over the concrete floor to little effect.

Back in the straight leg of the corridor, there was a small jolt as the subject leaped over the hole in the floor, and then she continued her advance on the Birkins. Annette brought her rifle to bear on the charging creature, striking panic in the subject's captive hostage.

"Don't shoot!" Wesker snapped, all too aware of Annette's dubious accuracy.

With a small grunt, the creature slid to an abrupt halt, apparently only just remembering that she had Wesker in her clutches. She turned her mottled face his way, giving him a decidedly malicious leer before cocking back her arm and roughly flinging him like a rag doll towards the Birkins.

William skittered out of the way in time; Annette was not so lucky. "Oof!" she exclaimed as Wesker collided with her lower half, and they both hit the floor in a tangle.

Wesker shoved Annette aside, pushing himself up in time to get backhanded by the subject. He went rolling into the far wall, his head and neck throbbing with enough pain to rival his shattered shoulder. Letting his head rest against the floor, he half-closed his eyes and waited for the hall to stop spinning around him.

Meanwhile, the subject proceeded to ignore both him and William as she advanced on Annette, who was busy scooting away along the floor. The creature was not dissuaded by her obvious retreat. Cocking her head to the side, she regarded Annette with solemn confusion. "Mother?" she croaked out in heartbreaking tones, for all the world a lost and abandoned child. She might have been pitiable were she not a hulking, mutated, bloodthirsty beast bent on annihilating them all in the most gruesome way possible.

"You have got to be kidding me," Annette choked out, a frown forming on her face as the subject continued to follow her plaintively. When her back collided with the wall she stopped and brought the rifle up, training it on the subject. "Back off," she ordered sternly.

The subject displayed no interest in obeying. With a grunt she surged towards Annette, her other targets long forgotten. William moved, taking half a step in the subject's direction as though to intercept her, before remembering that he was unarmed. He came to an immediate halt, clearly puzzled as to what he should do. Annette was far less confounded on that score, but the subject lunged before she could open fire, and suddenly Annette found herself staring into the black pits of the subject's eyes that hovered only inches from her face. She flinched as the creature's gore-smeared hands came up and cupped her jaw.

"Mother," the subject crooned again.

Annette squeezed her eyes shut. Her hands shaking, she maneuvered the rifle until its muzzle was directly under the creature's jaw. And then, just as the subject attempted to vocalize again, she squeezed the trigger.

With a resounding screech the subject jerked away as though stung, and her eyes widened in obvious confusion as she stared at Annette's furious expression. "Mother," she repeated, this time insistent, almost petulant. Wesker could easily envision her stamping a foot.

_This...thing...is an overgrown child._

The _overgrown child_ surged forward again, hands extended towards Annette with an intent that may or may not have been malicious. Either way, the woman wasn't taking any chances. She leaped to her feet and immediately scuttled away, a few pops of the rifle punctuating each step she took.

While Annette dodged the creature's advances and counterattacked whenever the opportunity presented itself, William dashed into the nearest lab. Wesker was inclined to believe it to be an act of cowardice, but was proven wrong when the man reappeared hardly a minute later, arms filled with small metal instrumentation and glass containers of all sizes. He immediately began to fling them, one by one, at the subject with impunity. As weapons they were all rather poor choices, but as far as annoyances went, they were on par with the bullet barrage. Given Annette's steady retreat from the subject's advances, the creature found William to be a much easier target. With a small shriek, she pounced, launching herself his way with surprising speed.

He dropped the lab equipment, but that was all the action he could manage before she reached him. His thin frame folded under her weight when she tackled him, sending both predator and prey to the floor. At first he kicked out with his legs, trying to knock her off of him, but she was unaffected by his weak blows. Then, with a desperate, fear filled cry, he tried to push her face away from his with his hands. The tentacles caught him then, twisting around his arms and wrenching them out of her way. William struggled against them fruitlessly, but it was her hands he should have been more concerned about. Rocking her weight back onto her heels, she slapped both palms over his cheeks and wrapped her fingers around his skull, her thumbs dangerously close to gouging out his eyes.

Her position greatly alarmed Annette, who screamed out William's name before rapidly altering course from a retreat to a full-throttle offensive. Flare bursts spat from the end of the rifle, accompanied by the death rattle of firing shells, but the subject was unmoved. While Annette watched helplessly, the monster lifted William's head from the floor—not far, less than a foot, though he groaned terribly in protest—before smashing it back down mercilessly against the concrete.

"Let—him—go—you—ugly—_bitch_!" Annette screamed out between wild bursts of breath, eyes wide with rage as she flung the useless rifle aside and threw herself towards the subject. Wesker was in the middle of clambering to his feet, and though he wasn't sure what Annette planned to do, he knew he didn't have enough time to stop her, nor could he stop the subject from bashing William's head against the floor a second time. Gritting his teeth, Wesker slammed his palm against the floor. He was not accustomed to being so useless; the foreign feeling of insignificance swirled unpalatably in his belly.

Annette collided with the subject just as the beast was lifting William's head for a third encounter with the floor. The young woman tackled the monster around her pronounced back, one arm wrapping around her neck while the other twisted over her forehead, and despite her smaller size, Annette's momentum was enough to send the subject stumbling forward, one large foot nearly crushing William's head in the process. The subject was otherwise completely oblivious to her earlier victim, and her tentacles slid from his limp limbs and moved to the woman assaulting her back. Wesker took the opportunity to dart past the subject, pausing only to grab Birkin by his arm and drag him to relative safety.

The scientist was distressingly limp as Wesker manhandled him away from the subject's stomping feet, and as soon as he had put some distance between the subject and them, Wesker leaned down and searched frantically for a pulse. Birkin's eyes shot open before he could get an accurate reading, however, and for a moment he struggled against empty air before realizing that the subject was no longer holding him down. A hand tentatively went to the back of his head, and he winced as he met Wesker's eyes. "Well—" he started to say, only to be interrupted by an indignant howl from the subject.

Both men whirled—Birkin far more haphazardly than Wesker—and saw Annette still perched on the subject's hunched spine, the arm around the monster's forehead the only thing keeping her up. The other arm was trapped in the grip of the subject's tentacles, but Annette still seemed to have plenty of control over it. If anything, the creature seemed far more confused than it did angry or murderous, and that was most likely the only reason Annette hadn't been sent flying yet. As they watched, the young woman struck out with her tentacle-ensnared arm, a glint of silver flashing at the end of her hand. Wesker realized she was trying to use the scalpel against the subject, but he'd had enough experience with that in the past to know that the creature's hide was thick enough to repel their standard blades and needles. Indeed, Annette wasn't drawing any blood.

"Mother, mother, mother!" the subject wailed, voice hysterical as her tentacles tried to gently dislodge Annette from her back. Birkin's wife was having none of it, though; in fact, she seemed to have grown rather fed up with the title entirely.

"I am NOT your mother!" she snarled out through bared teeth, swinging the scalpel-equipped arm up in a rage-fueled thrust. The surgical blade caught the subject mid-moan, disappearing into her mouth and sinking into the aptly named soft palate with little difficulty.

The subject's lament morphed into a horrendous, ear-splitting scream, which only left her open to additional attacks. Annette took full advantage, her arm flashing as she repeatedly jammed the blade into the monster's throat. Blood began to flow, pouring down the subject's neck and splattering to the floor in thick, dark droplets. With a strangled cough and a rough shake of her shoulders the subject dislodged Annette. For a moment she simply stood there stunned, tentacles and arms slack as blood ran from between her crooked lips, eyes flat and black as she stared through the three scientists. Then, with a choked sound of rage, she knocked Annette aside and charged the other two researchers.

Caught off guard by her sudden change in strategy, there was little either man could do to defend himself. Wesker tried to roll aside, only to land on his bad shoulder and lock up in pain. He wasn't sure what Birkin did, and he didn't have any time to find out. A large foot slammed into the concrete mere inches from his head, and then the subject's hand descended, closing over his throat like a vise.

_Not again_.

Wesker writhed, but her goal wasn't strangulation this time. Instead she jerked him onto his back and screamed into his face, clots of brackish blood spattering over his exposed flesh. He hadn't worried about it much before, but now he found himself definitely hoping that she wasn't carrying anything infectious in her system. Before he could become _too_ concerned with that, however, she wrenched her arm up, lifting him easily from the ground, and then threw him forward with what he suspected was all the strength she could muster.

Which, as it happened, was a lot of force. Wesker went flying down the hall, and there was absolutely nothing he could do to arrest his impromptu flight. Then he realized that he was headed straight for the open elevator shaft, and he had enough presence of mind to be alarmed about that. However, he met the ground first, luckily enough.

Unluckily, his momentum was more than sufficient to send him sliding the remaining distance between him and the shaft. He reached out and scrabbled at the edge of the landing with his good hand, but it wasn't nearly enough to make a difference. In a matter of seconds he pitched over the edge and toppled back into the elevator, the car rocking slightly as he slammed into the sticky floor.

With a groan Wesker rolled off his good shoulder and tried to collect himself. He was less than thrilled to be back in the damn elevator—getting out of it the last time had been more than enough excitement to last him a lifetime. It did, however, offer him some protection. As the subject rapidly approached, her feet thumping distinctly over the concrete above, Wesker took comfort in the fact that she couldn't reach him through the narrow gap. Of course, if she realized she could simply drop through the hole where the grate used to be to reach his floor, he was a dead man.

The thundering footsteps above suddenly went silent, and Wesker had a split second to notice the anomaly before a massive force smashed down on top of the elevator.

She was on the roof of the car.

_What the hell is she doing up there?_

And then the car began to creak and rock in protest as the subject started hopping up and down and mauling the roof, screaming out her frustration all the while. Wesker had no idea why she was taking out her fury on _him_, but he did know that he felt a lot less safe than he had a second ago. That feeling of unease increased exponentially when the subject began to slam her fists into the roof, visibly denting the metal all the way through to the ceiling.

There was a metallic shriek, and the entire car shuddered ominously. Wesker decided that he'd rather not be in the car any longer, so long as the subject was acting out her tantrum on top of it, and he tried to get his battered body to make some semblance of movement towards the third floor corridor.

The subject began to jump up and down again, snorting every time her feet collided with the metal elevator. The car itself began to jerk in time with her blows, moving more and more each time. It was practically even with the third floor now; Wesker couldn't even see any part of the second floor any longer. He raised himself on his good elbow and took some weight up on his knees, but his back protested furiously when he tried to pick himself up off the ground.

Groaning, he sank back down to the floor of the elevator, splayed fingers sliding through congealed, gummy blood. All around him the elevator echoed his sentiments, stainless steel crying out in agony as it gave way under the monster's barrage.

Where the hell were Annette and William? What were they doing?

_A little assistance would be _greatly _appreciated_.

There was a rapid series of sounds then—sudden, cacophonous, and nigh deafening. Wesker was able to differentiate a number of pops and snaps, rolls of thunder, something that sounded like a rake being dragged over concrete, magnified a thousand times, and over it all the dying screech of rendering metal. The third corridor shook in front of him, then rose halfway out of sight—and then vanished entirely as Wesker's stomach rose into his throat. His weight disappeared from the floor and he realized he was entering free-fall; the subject had apparently destroyed the cables and managed to overwhelm the old car's already-dubious safety brakes, and now he and the car were sliding uncontrollably down the shaft.

_Shit. This is going to hurt_.

There wasn't much time to panic about it, however—the shaft wasn't all that deep. Good for his chances of survival, but terrible in every other regard. The elevator struck the bottom of the shaft and stopped with a concussive bang; Wesker slammed down at the same time with enough force to leave him dazed, momentarily paralyzed, and choking on blood.

He'd bitten his tongue—or cheek—again. At least, he hoped that was all it was. He really couldn't deal with ruptured organs at the moment.

It was pitch black in the elevator, and for a moment it was completely silent save for the involuntary sounds of distress leaking from between his bloodied lips. Wesker wondered if the subject had jumped back onto the landing to maul the Birkins or had ridden down with him on the death car.

The ceiling above him creaked and he listened as a mass of flesh and muscle moved from one side of the car to the other. There was snuffling snort, followed by half a dry sob.

Well, that satisfied Wesker's curiosity. Confident that she posed little threat to him at the moment, the battered researcher decided to ignore the subject and focus on getting a move on. It struck him as extremely unlikely that either Birkin would come for him, after all. He would simply have to save himself.

Rolling back onto his elbows, Wesker let out a moan as his entire body flared with pain. Above him the subject stopped her pacing and growled, low and deep, but made no other moves. Wesker pressed forward, crawling on his elbow and knees as best as he could. His bad shoulder burned and crackled, but the sensation was hardly any different from the pounding in his skull and the sense of tight stiffness in his spine, and for once it seemed utterly manageable.

He reached out into the darkness, unable to see even the vague outline of his fingers, and searched blindly for resistance. He expected the hoist way doors to bar his way, but he soon realized that the force of impact had blasted them open and apart; his hand dropped to the floor and landed on cold, gritty concrete. Wesker pulled himself forward, out of the car.

There was no illumination outside the elevator, not even a single emergency light to show him the way. He was not on the fourth floor; he was somewhere far less convenient.

Behind him metal was ripped apart very much against its will, and weak red light filtered down into the car. It was not enough to reveal his surroundings, but it was enough for him to spy the misshapen silhouette of the subject's head as she thrust it through the theorized escape hatch. Crimson specks of light gleamed off her bared teeth and sparkled in her eye sockets as she snarled at him. There was a small, wet splatter near his feet as blood or saliva rained from her open maw to the floor below.

Wesker just met her black gaze numbly, too tired, too beat to try to move or even muster up concern. It was obvious that she wasn't getting her massive shoulders through the hatch; to get him, she'd have to take the whole roof of the car off. He figured he had some time to spare.

With a strained sigh, his head fell to his hands as he collapsed fully onto the floor.

He blacked out.

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><p><strong>I must admit that the movie <em>Speed <em>made me ridiculously terrified of elevators for an embarrassing amount of time. Not buses, though, oddly enough. Just elevators.**

**Anyways, that's all for now. Have a good week, folks.  
><strong>


	12. Meanwhile, above

**I hate this chapter; there were things I wanted to add to or subtract from it to make it suck less, but I've been awake for twenty...eight hours or so now, spent the last sevenish of those going over mortgages and foreclosures for my new job and oh GOD I just want to sleep so I can't remember what it was I wanted to change here and I just. don't. give. a. damn. So _voilà._**

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><p>"Oh my god," William gasped, words tripping over themselves as his tongue struggled to keep up with his racing brain. "<em>Oh my god<em>." Had that really just happened? He had to be hallucinating. _Had_ to be. Umbrella's elevators had never been all that reliable, but they had never, ever failed so spectacularly before. They didn't just _fall_, even if they were under siege by some monstrous creature. "Oh my god."

He tried to climb to his feet, tried to approach the shaft where the metal box had plummeted in a shower of blazing sparks and screaming metal, but his limbs were rubbery and unresponsive.

Something grabbed him by the wrist and he whirled, panicked, limbs flailing defensively. It was only Annette, though, although that realization came too late to stop him from throwing himself back down to the ground. The back of his skull smacked the concrete and there was a flash of light as the emergency lamps above suddenly blazed like miniature suns. Then Annette's face reappeared in front of him, shielding him from the dying lights. Her hands, mottled with the subject's cooling blood, were still clapped around his wrist.

"You're scaring me," she said, brow furrowed in concern. Birkin tried to laugh it off, to tell her he felt fine, but he couldn't seem to find the energy to open his mouth and do that. So he shook his head instead, flashed her a reassuring smile, and waited for the room to settle down.

"Let me see it," she urged him, hands leaving his to gently probe at the tender spot at the back of his head. Birkin recoiled.

"I-I'm _fine_," he stammered out, though it took all of his concentration to force his tongue and lips to shape the words properly. His brain felt foggy, muggy, clouded; it was difficult for him to sustain any thought for very long. There was, however, a pressing matter weighing on his mind, and he craned his head back towards the empty shaft. "T-the elevator," he attempted to explain. "Al—"

Annette's expression hardened, and she seized hold of Birkin once again. "That man can take care of himself," she replied tightly.

"We ca-can't just leave him d-down there," Birkin protested. Absently he rubbed at the back of his head, and his fingers encountered blood and the torn edges of flesh where his scalp had split under the subject's blows. He didn't think it was too serious, though. "He fell down the elevator shaft. H-he's going to be in trouble."

"He might not have even survived the fall," Annette replied, not trying to be unkind yet clearly incapable of working up sympathy over that possibility.

Birkin shook his head, then immediately regretted the action when a wave of dizziness overtook him. His poor, tender stomach twitched in discomfort. "N-no, he'd only f-f-fall to the fourf floor," Birkin tried to explain, his fat tongue mangling his words. Then he frowned. "Or actually..."

Annette raised her brows, waiting for Birkin to continue. Behind her the hallway seemed to be stretching back into infinity, twisting and coiling like a writhing snake—

Birkin blinked and focused his eyes on the floor. _Definitely_ hallucinating. He might be dealing with a concussion after all, though he thought it was a fair bet that if Wesker was still alive, he was suffering far more at the moment. Ignoring his discomfort, he tried to forge ahead with his explanation. "The floor," he said weakly. "There's a..." What was the word for it again? Birkin was temporarily stymied; his vocabulary had left him. "A b-basement," he finished lamely.

Annette gave him her best you're-crazy-but-I'm-going-to-humor-you-anyways look, an expression he knew well. "We're in the basement," she pointed out gently. "Look, maybe we should get you somewhere more comfortable, somewhere out of this hall," she suggested.

Frustrated, Birkin balled his fists and shook off her attempts to get him to his feet. "Under the floor!" he snapped. "The place...it's where t-they put the...things, the d-dead things!"

"The incinerator?" Annette asked, for some reason sounding very far away, almost as though she were underwater. Birkin realized his ears were ringing, but he was too relieved by her realization to care.

"Yes," he breathed out. "Where the incinerator is."

"Okay," Annette acknowledged. "So he's down there. Doesn't change our own position. We should leave now while the subject's occupied with him."

Birkin frowned. "I'm not leaving him behind," he protested. "He didn't ab-abandon me, n-nor you, for that matter. We ought to d-do the same."

"No," Annette said. "Listen to me, William. Wesker's only helped you so far because it was in his best interests. He isn't your _friend_. As soon as you outlive your usefulness to him, he'll probably be your enemy. Hell, I'd rather have the subject at my back than him. At least with her you _know_ when the knife is coming down."

"No, that's not..." Birkin started. "He's just...you haven't known him as long as I have," he muttered, attempting to clarify his position, but it just wasn't working; he couldn't _think_. Biting back a groan, he shoved the heels of his hands against his temples and tried to massage away the ache pounding just behind his frontal bone. "We've always worked t—" he broke off as an unexpected spike of pain lanced from one temporal lobe to the other, completely annihilating his train of thought. Dropping his hands from his face, he glanced up at Annette, utterly bemused. And then there was a pinch at the base of his stomach, and suddenly he was puking all over the floor.

Well, not _all_ over. There wasn't much liquid to bring up, especially after his earlier bouts, but it still burned his throat and left him gasping and spitting. "Agh, dammit!" he shouted angrily, slamming his fists into the floor. _Why_ was this happening? He couldn't even control his own damn body anymore!

"William," Annette said gently, soothingly. She dropped down next to him and wound her arms around his shoulders; with minimal prodding she was able to navigate him away from his latest mess, which shone redly under the emergency lamps. Before his whirling mind could fully realize that she was guiding him further down the hall, Annette was already seating him at one of the building's ubiquitous lab benches.

"Drink this," she suggested, pushing a glass beaker of water his way. Birkin eyed it with trepidation; his stomach had a pretty poor track record of keeping things down. His throat was still burning from the acid he'd just spat up, however, so he relented to her urgings. It took a lot of effort to get the glass to his lips; his hands were shaking so badly that more than half the water ended up on the counter and in his lap. The effort was worth it, though. The cold fluid soothed his aching throat and settled pleasantly in his stomach, and for the moment, at least, his head felt a little more anchored to his body.

While he worked on downing more of the drink, Annette patted his arm and made to leave the lab. When he glanced up, concern warring with confusion, she gave him an enigmatic smile. "I'll be back in a second," she promised, before sweeping out the doorway.

She'd given him no time to protest, but that didn't mean he _had_ to agree with her sudden departure. He'd only just found her, after all; the last thing he wanted was to split up or have her out of his sight for even just a second. "A-annette," he stuttered out, trying to push himself back onto his feet. Said feet were like leaden weights, however, unwilling to be moved, and the moment he straightened his new-found sense of clear-headedness disappeared in a rush of vertigo.

He slammed back down onto the stool, his entire body trembling. _Dammit. I'm still too weak. Always so damn weak_. Expelling a steadying breath of air, Birkin screwed his eyes shut and planted his palms onto the bench. _Mind over matter_, he encouraged himself, forcing his legs to straighten and slowly take up his weight. _I won't lose her, not again. Not if I can help it._

Once again, his brain rebelled against his body, and he threatened to fall when the entire room seemingly turned on its axis. Keeping his eyes shut, Birkin sucked in another careful breath through his nose. _It's all in your head. Just keep moving_.

He sent out one foot while keeping most of his weight on his hands; so far so good. A few more successful steps forward and he chanced opening his eyes; objects were blurred but mostly stationary, though the floor did seem to be undulating softly. He ignored it and pressed on, relying less and less on the counter and more on his legs.

_This isn't so bad. Could really use something to kill this raging headache, though. Something good. Hydrocodone_.

A few more steps and he'd cleared the bench; he had to rely entirely on his legs for support now. And though his torso wavered slightly, he felt fairly confident in his ability to not wind up back on the floor so long as he proceeded carefully.

"William! What are you doing?" Annette reappeared in the doorway, a gun tucked under each arm. Her face was a mask of surprise as she beheld him standing there drunkenly in the middle of the lab.

Startled, Birkin jumped, shattering his hard-won balance. Reeling backwards, he managed to catch himself on the nearest counter before his stumbling feet could send him to the floor. Fighting to catch his breath and slow his hammering heart, Birkin gave his wife a strained look.

"I was worried," he puffed out.

Annette approached, dropping Wesker's sub-machine gun on the counter next to him as she did so. "_You_ were worried? Honestly William, I just watched the subject try to bash your brains out on the floor. She did the same thing to one of my coworkers, you know. Only it was a lot more fatal for him." She gave a light shudder. "Besides, she doesn't seem too keen on killing me. Something about this 'mother' business, I guess."

"That was before you took a scalpel to her face," Birkin sighed. "And she captured you, remember. She could easily do it again."

"I wouldn't give her the chance," Annette promised. She pushed the beaker of water back into his hands. "You need to keep drinking. You're pale as a sheet."

As Birkin considered the glass in his hands, Annette reached down into her lab coat and withdrew a small plastic cylinder.

"Do you know what this is?" she asked him, holding it up for his inspection. Birkin realized it was a capped syringe, filled generously with a clear, colorless fluid. "I found it lying out there in the hall."

Birkin shrugged. "I've never seen it before," he murmured, then tried to take a drink. The water had lost its appeal, however, and it felt a bit slimy as it slid down his throat. Grimacing, he pushed the beaker away.

"Must be Wesker's then, don't you think?" she commented, staring at the syringe as if expecting it to offer up its secrets. Given that most of the solutions that they worked with were clear and colorless, however, the contents of the device could nearly be anything. No amount of staring was going to help them determine what it was. "I wonder what he was planning for it."

"There's only one way to know for sure..." Birkin reminded her.

"You're crazy," Annette replied, pocketing the syringe. "We're not going after him. You can barely stand as it is."

Birkin's brow puckered. "But—"

"And you don't want me to go _alone_, do you?" Annette added, to which Birkin vehemently shook his head.

"No, of course not," he replied hastily. "But we can't just leave him _behind_."

"Okay," Annette said, one hand patting his absently as she considered their options. "Okay. Here's what we'll do: you're going to stay here and get some rest, all right? I'm going to _look_ around. I'm not going anywhere near the—what is it called? The basement? The fifth floor? Anyways, I'm not going there. I'm not crazy. But I'll try to see if there's any way to meet up with Wesker again or at least find out if he's alive. Would that satisfy you?"

Birkin shook his head quickly. "No, that's w-way too dangerous," he protested.

"Well, _something_ has to be done, William," Annette responded, hands dropping to her hips. "You don't want to leave him behind, but you're not fit to look for him and you don't what me to do it, either. How exactly do you want us to proceed, then? Are we just supposed to wait for the subject to find us and finish us off?"

"I don't—I don't know!" Birkin snapped, his headache doubling in size. Fisting his hands in his hair, he began to rock back and forth on the stool in frustration. "We can't—I just—if only—I don't know what to do!"

"Well, _I_ do," Annette asserted, clapping her hands over his shoulders and halting his erratic movements. "Like I said: you wait here, and I'll check things out. I'm not an _idiot_, William. I can watch out for myself. The subject won't get the drop on me again."

Birkin wanted to protest more, but what was the point? Annette was right; they couldn't just sit around forever, they didn't have nearly that much time. And as it was, he could barely keep his thoughts straight or his eyes open. He certainly wasn't in any shape to be mounting any sort of rescue expeditions. But for Annette to go...by herself…

Then again, she definitely wouldn't put herself at risk just for the sake of Wesker.

And it wasn't like he could stop her. She was going to do what she felt was necessary, one way or another.

"Just be careful," he said at last, softly, reluctantly. "Please."

Annette gave him a small smile. "Of course. And you should rest," she advised. "We might need to beat a hasty retreat when I get back."

She stood and turned towards the lab's entrance, pausing near the sub-machine gun. Glancing his way, she pushed the gun closer to him while shouldering the rifle. Then, with a dip of her head and a soft, "I'll be back before you know it," she flitted out of the lab and was gone.

Birkin released a shuddering breath before laying his head down on the lab bench. Rest? How was he supposed to rest when she was out there facing down monsters? Sure, the subject hadn't tried too hard to kill her yet, but that beast was unpredictable. There was no telling what she would do if Annette fell back into her sights. He would just have to trust that Annette knew how to stay out of trouble.

Despite his concern and the anxiety swirling in his belly, Birkin felt his eyelids drooping. And though he struggled to keep them open, eventually his fatigue and throbbing head won out. He drifted off.

Annette glanced both ways down the hall before she approached the open shaft, which, without the elevator, looked like a gaping mouth just waiting to swallow her whole. Considering the fact that it could contain a monster more than capable of tearing her limb from limb, Annette rather wished that it really was just a toothless maw and not some tunnel into hell.

Her steps slowed as she drew closer to the edge of the landing. She'd seen the elevator fall, the subject riding atop it, but that didn't mean the subject hadn't jumped off mid-fall. For all Annette knew, the monster was prowling the floor below or climbing up the side of the shaft at that very moment.

She didn't hear anything, though, and that was a bit reassuring. The subject hadn't exactly seemed too concerned about stealth in their last encounters, except perhaps for the stairwell trap. _That_ had been surprising; she wasn't sure if the subject had actually planned on getting the drop on them like that or if it had been an unlucky twist of fate that they'd all shown up at the door at the same time. Regardless of the truth behind it, the whole incident left Annette feeling uneasy. So it was only with great caution that Annette leaned forward, bracing herself with a hand on the call panel, and peered down the shaft.

_Nothing_.

Aside from the red light weakly filtering in from the third floor, the entire shaft was as pitch black as a moonless night, and there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell that she would be able to see anything in the gloom. Somewhere down there the subject was on the loose, and Wesker...how likely was it that he survived? A fall from the third floor to the fifth floor didn't seem that dangerous, all things considered, but she couldn't really know.

_The place where they put the dead things_, as William had described it rather ineloquently. She couldn't think of a more fitting place for Wesker to end up.

Withdrawing, her face set into a thoughtful frown as she considered her options. Perhaps there was a way of getting closer to the fallen elevator...

Though what good it would do her or anyone else, she didn't really know. All she needed was some way of satisfying Birkin on the futility and absolute uselessness of helping Wesker...or, she supposed, some way of just getting the dumb blond from wherever he'd fallen. In the end, that would probably be easier than going up against her husband's stubborn streak.

She turned and strode down the corridor, giving the grate-less hole in the floor a wide berth. She didn't want to fall down the gap; she especially didn't want to be caught off guard by the subject jumping _up_ through it. Not that that event seemed particularly likely...still, the fastest way to get killed by the monster was to underestimate her abilities.

She returned to the door-less stairwell, and then she paused. It would be a simple enough matter to return to the surface, and from there she could probably access the mansion. She was pretty sure the two buildings were powered independently from one another; if nothing else, she might be able to make a distress call. Then again, how would the higher ups respond to a disaster like this? If they feared an outbreak, their control measures would include neutralizing the building and all those inside it.

Or maybe not. Perhaps they'd just quarantine the survivors. Umbrella could be unpredictable, but it didn't necessarily view its employees as disposable...certain employees, anyways. It didn't take a genius to see that William and Wesker were both Spencer's favored researchers. As for herself...she could not count on such favoritism. She was the most disposable of the three.

_Screw the reinforcements. We made it this far on our own; we'll get out of it on our own_.

Down the stairs she went, rifle at the ready as she took the steps two at a time. She stopped abruptly on the fourth floor landing, because the stairs went no further.

_What?_

Just to be sure, she checked the walls for recessed or otherwise hidden doors, but there was nothing to be found. The stairs simply did not continue downward.

_How...how do they get down to the fifth floor? Is there even a fifth floor?_

It wouldn't be the first time Birkin had imagined something. Still, she knew there was an incinerator _somewhere_ on the premises, and the so-called basement sounded like the most likely spot for it. Unless it was elsewhere on the grounds entirely.

Plodding through the gunky stain of blood coating the floor, Annette cracked open the fourth floor door and peered down the hall. No activity to be seen, though she couldn't see the elevator from where she was standing, either. Grumbling to herself she pushed the door open further and slipped out into the hallway.

She only went as far as the corner, at which point she saw that the elevator doors—the hoist way doors, really—were still closed. The subject hadn't forced her way through, and that knowledge was good enough for Annette. The researcher quickly retreated back to the stairs and made her way to the third floor.

The hoist doors were open there, of course, since she'd unlocked them herself not so long ago. The shaft was just as empty as it was on the floor above, though she'd been expecting that. What she really wanted to know was whether the elevator was right below, stuck on the fourth floor, or if it had actually descended to some secret basement.

Her approach was exceedingly slow, and she could not ignore the way the barrel of the rifle shook in her grasp. Annette was afraid, and she would have readily admitted it to anyone—save Wesker. But now was the moment of truth: if the elevator was right below her, she was probably walking right into the reach of the subject. Despite her confident words to William, she wasn't so sure she would be able to evade the monster, and was even less certain the creature wouldn't try to kill her—she'd already nearly done it already, accidentally. Given the creature's inhuman strength, it wouldn't take much to do the job.

The tip of the rifle explored the shaft first, followed a few tense seconds later by Annette. The young woman glanced down the shaft, but there was still nothing to be seen. Just to be sure, she held the rifle by its stock and poked down into the darkness, searching for the roof of the wayward car. But all it hit was empty air.

_So the car really did go all the way down after all_, she mused. _But without any stairs, how are we—how am _I_ going to get down there to Wesker? How could he possibly get back up to us?_

Pensive, Annette crouched down at the lip of the landing. Would it be possible to climb down the shaft? That wouldn't really help, though, since she'd still need a way to get through the roof of the elevator car to reach Wesker.

_Damn. Why does everything have to be so complicated?_

Biting back a groan, Annette made to stand up when a small sound caught her attention. She froze, waiting, until she heard it again: a quiet scrape, barely audible in the silence. It was followed by several more, each a little louder than the last, echoing up from the depths of the shaft.

_Oh god. Please let that be Wesker_.

But Annette seriously doubted that it was him. Wesker was a tough son of a bitch, but there was no way that he could climb up an elevator shaft. Not in his present condition.

Sucking in a breath and holding it there, Annette drew up the rifle and trained it on the darkness below. She had to be sure...

There was a soft groan in the gloom, and an indefinable shape shifted about, almost invisible against the black backdrop. The fourth floor hoist way doors shuddered suddenly and Annette jumped, quickly directing her weapon in their direction.

Red light spilled into the shaft below as the doors were partially wrenched apart, illuminating the hulking figure clinging to the wall of the shaft. Rope-like tentacles stirred the air over the crooked plains of the beast's expansive shoulders, and Annette felt her grip on the gun tighten. _Definitely not Wesker_. The thing pulled herself onto the lip of the landing, her muscular arms straining to force the hoist way doors apart fully. Then it stopped abruptly, and Annette sucked in a horrified breath as the subject's head turned and fixed its gleaming sockets on the young woman. There was a smile on her face, a crooked, gap-toothed grin filled with such gleeful malice that Annette knew she was "mother" no longer.

She was prey.

_FUCK_.

Twisting on her heel, Annette dashed for the stairwell while the sounds of the hoist way doors giving way echoed up from the floor below. She hit the stairs at a dead run and sailed up them, all the while overly conscious of the fact that the subject was fast, faster than any of them. She had to get to the second floor, had to get to William before the subject could—

The entire well filled with furious reverberations as the subject let out a roar somewhere below; Annette flinched but pressed on, throwing herself through the second floor door. "William," she puffed out warningly, too winded to be heard.

"William!" she slid into the open lab, and William pulled his head up from the bench, the sleepy expression on his face dissolving as Annette lunged at him.

"Wha—!"

Annette collided with her husband and dragged him down to the floor in one rough motion, clapping a hand over his mouth and pressing a finger to her own lips as she did so. Pulling the both of them up against the lab bench, she could only give William an apologetic look as the subject let out a scream from the hall outside.

They were trapped, and they didn't even have a door between themselves and the monster.

_What in the world are we going to do now?_


	13. Bad Place

**Okay, I just want to A) warn you that the events surrounding Wesker and those surrounding the Birkins are not necessarily happening concurrently, and B) remind you that this laboratory setting is not in any way based off the one you explore in RE1. Please keep those factors in mind for the next few chapitres. Danke schön.  
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><p>Wesker ascended the stairs, his injuries giving him a distinct limp. It wasn't as much of a hindrance as he would've expected, though, and the wounds themselves were hardly giving him difficulties—they hurt, he <em>knew<em> they hurt, but somehow he was separate from the agony, his calculating mind detached from the physical ills of his body. He plodded along, oblivious, his only thoughts on escaping.

The stairs went on, and on, and on. How many flights had he climbed? Five? Ten? Twenty? How many floors did that make? There hadn't been any doors, nor had there been any windows or painted stripes to gauge his progress by. So he kept going, on and on. Somewhere behind him he was sure the subject was lurking, but he couldn't see her. Couldn't hear her. And he pressed on.

Eventually the steps gave way to a concrete landing and a solid, reinforced metal door, the likes of which Wesker had never seen before. His hand automatically moved to his pocket, searching for his ID card, until he noticed that the door had no card reader. No number pad. No apparent locking mechanisms of any sort.

He pressed against the door with his open palm and it gave easily, swinging open to admit him to a world he was beginning to think he'd never see again. Fresh air buffeted his face, cold and laden with moisture. He licked his lips and tasted dew.

It was dark out, night—_night? How long was I out for?_—having fallen. Beyond the veil of leafy treetops above, stars winked down at him, unusually bright and strangely welcoming after his underground imprisonment.

Aware of the time constraints, Wesker moved forward, feet crunching over slick grass until he butted up against the parking lot. The expansive desert of asphalt was fairly deserted, occupied only by a few cars. His own vehicle was nowhere to be seen.

A faint sensation of unease prickled at the back of his mind, but he couldn't quite place its origin. His eyes settled on the Birkin family mobile, the white BMW emitting a ghostly glow in the moonlight, and he frowned. They were still here? He'd expected them to be long gone...something was wrong...

There was that feeling of wrongness once again, and Wesker shook his head, a hand coming up to his temples. _What..._

A growl sundered the air, low and deep. He turned slowly, revolving in place until the metal door came back into view. It gaped open wide, a ruby red glow surrounding something standing in its threshold. Something hunchbacked and disproportionate. The test subject. Smeared black with blood, from the top of her skull to her bare, callused feet. Twin spots of hellfire smoldered in her caliginous sockets, and Wesker felt a surge of panic sweep through his body.

He twisted and ran for the lot, but the cars were all too far away.

A tentacle caught him by the leg and brought him down. He hit the asphalt and rolled, but he was still tethered to the creature by the muscular tendril. There was nowhere to run, no escape possible. Suddenly she was simply _there_, looming above him, blotting out the stars and the moon with her malevolent form. Her sanguine war paint glistened wetly in the starlight, a grisly carapace. She opened her mouth and Wesker got a good glimpse of her pointed teeth, bits of flesh and viscera caught in her gum line.

She was going to eat him.

Wesker struggled, his hands pushing fruitlessly against her shoulders, her face, her jaw, _everywhere_, trying to force her back and away. But she was as immovable as stone. When she tired of his antics the tentacles rose around her, their pointed ends directed his way.

There was no warning for what came next. Wesker gasped and recoiled as one of the tentacles ran him through, jabbing into his side, just to the right of his navel. It hurt; he writhed. Warmth seeped across his back and he suddenly felt exhausted. But the subject was not finished. One heavy hand came down over his forehead and pushed his skull against the ground. He clawed weakly at her wrist, feeling lethargic, but it was the other hand he should have been watching. That one rose, its fingers joining together to form a point. She lifted it into his field of view, and then plunged it down, sliding it between his ribs and into his heart—

Wesker awoke in darkness. Utterly blind and disoriented, he panicked and flailed, which quickly brought about wracking waves of agony from nearly every point in his body. The pain was enough to bring him to his senses, and it was then that he remembered where he was.

_A dream._

He felt a momentary pang of relief at still being alive, but it was quickly subsumed by the crushing disappointment that he was still deep underground, layers upon layers of stainless steel and concrete separating him from the surface far above.

He was also entirely conscious of the numerous injuries his dreaming self had so effortlessly overlooked.

Nothing was ever easy.

With a small groan, the aching researcher pushed himself up with his good arm, high enough to at least get his face off the floor. He didn't dare try to move his legs or back just yet, knowing that the end result was going to be far from pleasant. Blinking his eyes, he tried in vain to get a better look at his surroundings.

There was simply no light, however. The pressing blanket of total darkness was unpleasantly confining, threatening to fill Wesker with the unfamiliar sensation of claustrophobia. His breathing, slightly ragged and rapid as it was, echoed slightly in the room, however, reminding him that it wasn't nearly as small as his instincts told him it was. By keeping that knowledge firmly ensconced in his brain, the young scientist was able to remain in control as he assessed the situation.

Behind him lay the elevator, a very thin stream of scarlet light beaming down from the hole in the car's ceiling. There was no sign of the subject; Wesker assumed she had gotten bored and moved on to livelier targets. The light itself didn't penetrate any further than the interior of the car, and with a sigh he turned back to the room and let his eyes fall shut. They weren't going to do him much good for the time being.

His other senses were doing just fine, which wasn't necessarily a good thing, considering his location. The room reeked of old, rotted flesh mixed with the acrid stench of badly burnt meat—byproducts of the facility's entirely inadequate incinerator. The burner hadn't been designed for the scale of its current use, and half the time it clogged up, filling the morgue with horrible fumes and toxic smoke. Ash littered the floor; he could feel it even now, like very fine sand beneath the bare skin of his palms. The air felt dusty, tasted _tainted_. He wasn't sure which was worse: fresh gore or partially cremated remains.

It didn't matter either way. What did matter was making his dream—the first part of it, anyway—a reality and getting back to the surface. Clenching his teeth, the blond sat up. His back protested the motion with a dull sensation of stiff soreness, but he'd gotten worse cramps from hunching over a lab bench for hours. He could handle it. He tested his limbs and joints, looking for weak spots—his right knee and elbow were a bit tender, since he'd landed on that side when the elevator fell—but aside from a few pains he found nothing too surprising. The headache he accepted as a fact of life, and his bad shoulder had lost his respect a long time ago. He had not yet acquired anything too debilitating, which meant that it was time to get a move on.

Of course, he had to figure out where in the world he was supposed to go first.

The morgue—or waste disposal area, as some would call it—was almost as restricted as the weapons cache when it came to accessibility. Generally only the few workers assigned to the floor were allowed there, clocking in every night to burn off the waste accumulated during the day. The entire floor was a veritable hot zone, off-limits to the researchers for both their safety and, more importantly, the prevention of sample theft. Wesker knew of more than one scientist unscrupulous enough to dip into a colleague's leftovers in an effort to ferret out secrets if given half the chance. While Umbrella couldn't prevent all acts of internal espionage—didn't even try half the time, really—it took pains to secure the incinerator.

Which was all well and good, normally. Wesker had never had cause nor impulse to go spelunking through corpses, and in the ten years he'd been at the Arklay facility, he'd been down to the fifth floor only twice. In both instances he'd been dropping off remains contaminated with very sensitive agents, and both times his errand had been sanctioned by Spencer. He'd have never made it down there, otherwise. As far as he knew there were no stairs connecting to the floor, and the elevators required a special key and pass code to go past the fourth level. Supposedly there was a direct surface-to-incinerator lift, but it had even greater security measures than the standard elevators. When Umbrella decreed "No Unauthorized Access", it meant it.

Which left Wesker shit out of luck. He didn't have any of the keys to work the elevators, and without power they weren't about to go anywhere, anyways. And since Umbrella hadn't seen fit to install any emergency lights down there, he wouldn't have been able to find any of the other elevators in the first place, even if those other problems hadn't applied.

"It just gets better and better," he muttered bitterly to himself. At least the subject wasn't around, though—he had some time to figure out a plan.

First, he decided, he had to take care of himself. He shrugged his lab coat off his good shoulder and peeled it off his bad one—no easy task, since his blood had dried and glued it to the shirt underneath. Once the coat was off and fresh blood was trickling down his left arm, the intrepid scientist tried to twist the ruined garment into a makeshift sling for his arm. Given that he only had limb to complete this task with, however, he soon found the idea to be completely unworkable, and halfway through he realized that he should probably have checked the coat's pockets first. He'd been keeping sensitive materials in them, after all.

Shaking the coat back out, he felt out a pocket and immediately experienced a surge of disappointment when his fingers contacted broken pieces of plastic. His first thought was for the syringe, but when he realized that the pieces weren't wet and couldn't possibly form the shape of a syringe when whole, he had to bite back a different curse entirely. His was holding his shades, or what remained of them.

He tossed the plastic aside; it was useless to him now. He went back to exploring his pockets, but his attempts turned up nothing else.

The syringe was gone, no doubt lost during one of his altercations with the subject.

_Well, isn't that just perfect_.

With a small huff, Wesker tossed the coat away. It wasn't such a big loss; there had only ever been a slim chance of him getting an opportunity to inject the poison into the subject anyways. He then worked the first few buttons of his shirt open with his good hand, forcibly manhandling his disabled arm to rest over his chest while he buttoned his shirt back up around it. It wasn't the best sling, not by a long shot, but hopefully it would at least keep the limb from getting jostled around unnecessarily.

Then he sat back again and mulled over his predicament. Technically, if he waited long enough, someone else would probably take care of the subject, power would be restored, and the next time anyone came down to burn the bodies—of which there was now a considerable number, in light of how the morning had gone—or fix the elevator, he would be discovered. And while part of him—the injured portion—found that idea agreeable, Wesker himself was not so inclined to it. He could hardly entrust his fate to someone else, especially when the situation involved something as powerful and unpredictable the subject. For all he knew, Spencer would take one look at the ravaged facility, declare it a lost cause, and remotely set off the self-destruct to curtail a possible outbreak. He still had the training facility, after all. The death of the Arklay lab would not be the death of the T virus.

_The training facility..._

Was Marcus over there right at that moment, slaving away with his leeches and secret projects? Did he have any idea what sort of hell the Arklay facility had become in the last few hours? Would he even care? _Probably not_, Wesker decided. The man had gone odd years ago, and solitude had done him no favors. They hadn't even heard a thing from him in nearly a year; for all any of them knew, the man was dead. Still, if there was any way to contact him...perhaps, if it were to help his favored researchers...

But Wesker wasn't even sure if the phones were still working in the Arklay lab, let alone the training facility. Even if they were, he'd still have to find one, somehow, and Marcus would still have to pick up the other end of the line. It was all rather unlikely; Marcus had developed a preference for written communications ever since things had soured between him and Spencer.

_Well, it's not like Marcus could have helped in any way, regardless_, Wesker conceded to himself before reassessing his position. What he needed to do was get to the surface, that much was obvious. The elevators were out of the question, with or without power, but there had to be another way out. Surely there was some sort of emergency exit; Umbrella must have foreseen power failures. Then again, they hadn't thought to give back up lights to the floor, so maybe they really had overlooked such a thing. Since he was screwed if that actually was the case, Wesker decided to assume that there was indeed some other way out.

He stood, pointedly ignoring the stiffness in his limbs. Feeling rather adrift in a sea of unrelenting shadow, he decided to anchor himself on a wall and began a careful trek to the right. Almost immediately he tripped over his discarded lab coat, though fortuitously he managed to catch himself on a grimy gurney. Less fortuitously, it was occupied, and his hand slid through soft, rotten flesh, releasing a puff of putrid fumes right into his face. Fighting the reflex to pull away and inadvertently send himself careening off into empty space, Wesker retracted his hand slowly and replaced it on an empty slab of metal, steadying himself. Balance restored, he pressed on, his feet kicking up ashes and scattering fragments of bone as he worked his way deeper into the room.

_I hate this place_, he thought, just as one of his kneecaps encountered the metal legs of another gurney.

"Goddamnit!" he roared, angrily shoving the offending trolley away. The stretcher hit the ground with an obnoxious clatter and a few wet plops; it had not been unoccupied. Dry, dusty air laden with the scent of putrefaction wafted up to Wesker; he shut his mouth quickly and moved on. One could only wonder what sort of microscopic particles were present in such dust, especially if it had come into contact with any bodies.

One could also wonder why the place was so crowded—there were stretchers _everywhere_, ash generously littered the floor in clumps and piles, and the air was absolutely ripe with decay. There was no way that much waste had built up since the night shift; Wesker had to assume that the incinerator was on the fritz again, and had been that way for several days, at least. How fortunate for him; Umbrella hadn't invested in any freezers down there, the lousy spendthrifts. No wonder it reeked so badly.

His fingers traced a path down the wall as he followed alongside it, though more than once he had to move his hand to dislodge obstacles standing in his way. He couldn't get them all, though, and he flinched when his foot came down on a large piece of bone, the brittle diaphysis shattering beneath his weight with a resounding crack. Recoiling, he wiped the bottom of his foot against the opposite pant leg.

_This would be so much less worse_, he thought, _if I still had my shoe_.

Luckily, it didn't feel as if any shards had worked their way into his bare flesh, and he settled the foot back onto the ground at a good distance from the broken bone.

A dry cough sounded out from somewhere to his left, and Wesker froze in place.

He wasn't alone.

He should've been, but he wasn't.

His mind furiously ran through the possibilities while his body remained completely frozen in his current, less-than-comfortable position. It could be one of the night workers, but that was only a very slim possibility given that most of them cleared out well before sunrise, and even if one had stayed behind, he probably would have spoken up when the elevator first came crashing down to the floor. Wesker quickly nixed "rational human" off his mental list.

It could be the subject, though Wesker felt that this possibility was also rather unlikely. Her presence would have indicated the existence of another entrance to the floor, since she obviously hadn't worked her way through the busted elevator. He rather doubted that she could have discovered another way in so quickly, though. She was also not very stealthy, although her little stairwell ambush had certainly enlightened him to the fact that she could indeed lay in wait, if she so desired. Given the level of rage she'd displayed when he'd seen her last, however, Wesker rather doubted he would still be alive if she were down there with him.

Or it was a corpse. Reanimation in discarded subjects was rare, since most bodies were held in the vivarium or their respective labs until it was determined that no revival was forthcoming. But it was not unheard of; subjects infected with strains that had little reanimating ability were often dropped as soon as they were dead, as were those in labs whose leading researcher was behind in work and didn't have time to keep dead bodies around. When the incinerator was up and running, this wasn't a problem—the bodies were toasted long before they could exhibit so much as a post-mortem twitch. But when the incinerator was broken, and the bodies started to build up...

Wesker grit his teeth. _Things really_ do _get better and better_, he acknowledged cynically.

The thing coughed again, and this time the sound was accompanied by the crackle of bone splinters underfoot and the click of claws against concrete. It also sounded like it was dragging its weight; a perfectly feasible supposition, considering the fact that it had probably been autopsied and was now missing any number or organs and suffering from sliced muscles and tendons.

It was probably a dog, Wesker decided, listening as the thing struggled to move around. It didn't seem capable of moving quickly, for which Wesker was grateful—reanimated subjects carried so much virus in a single drop of saliva that even a glancing scrape from one of its fangs would pretty much be a death sentence. Still, it might not be the only one out there. Zombies could surround him on every side, could even now being closing in, and he'd never see them coming. Not even if they were practically on top of him.

_Would it be too much to ask for a fucking flashlight?_

Since the dog wasn't doing much, Wesker decided to keep moving. Let it try to follow him if it could; it would never catch up. He placed his hand back on the wall and forged ahead, though he kept his senses tuned for any signs of movement around him.

_The first thing I am going to do when I get out of here_, Wesker decided, _is get a gun. Something useful. A .45_.

Kicking his way through a cluster of gurneys, Wesker had to pause momentarily when he heard a series of scratches nearby. But it was just the dog, dragging itself laboriously and ineffectively in his direction, so he continued forward.

Until a scuff from up ahead brought him to another standstill.

Behind him the dog continued on, claws clicking. Wesker felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. It could not be in two places at once—he had more company. The soft thud of a plodding footstep sounded off, twenty feet or so away, confirming his suspicions. Another dull thud—closer, no clicks; a clawless foot. Too heavy to belong to anything but a primate, at the very least.

Moving silently, cautiously in the total darkness, Wesker pressed his back to the wall, leaving his arm free for whatever might come. How did the reanimated seek their prey? Sight? Sound? Scent? Given his surroundings, two of those three senses were going to be heavily confounded—he just had to keep from making any untoward noise. Somehow. As he walked blind through a veritable maze of clanking gurneys and clutter-laden floor.

_Oh yes. This should be all too _easy_, _he thought to himself grimly.

Another scuffing sound, nearer now to where he lingered. The thing was drawing towards his last known location, which, since he hadn't moved, was still where he was currently waiting.

Time to get a move on.

He sidled slowly along the wall, ears trained for any movements up ahead. Bony ash crunched beneath his feet; lifeless soles slapped doggedly towards him.

_Damn !_

There was nothing for it; the thing was closing in. A gurney creaked as it collided with his aggressor, and Wesker pushed himself more hurriedly along the wall. _That gun would be _very _useful right about now. _

Something snagged against his sleeved arm and Wesker flinched back, flattening himself to the wall as a surge of adrenaline rocketed through his veins. It was right in front of him! But he could see nothing, nothing at all—could smell it, though, he realized. The vulgar odor of rot was stronger in his nostrils, heavy enough to taste.

There was a sense of something crowding him in against the wall, a hovering presence not far from his own. The time to run had passed; he had no option but to fight back.

_With what?_ All he had were his hands—_hand_. He threw out his one functioning arm, aiming low to avoid any open mouth and gnashing teeth and wishing that he had taken the time to get some hand-to-hand combat experience under his belt. After all, who needed a gun when one could use one's own body as a weapon?

_Later_, he promised himself as his fingers cut through air. _I'll destroy all these assholes with my bare hands the next time it comes to this._

His fist connected, sinking in deep against moist, puckered flesh. Trapped gasses hissed free from dead spaces, filling the surrounding air with an even greater pungency. There was a dry exhalation—a moan, a gasp—and the flaccid muscles beneath Wesker's knuckles trembled, small tremors of false life sweeping through the corpse. Disgusted, the scientist shoved the creature away, listening as it cascaded into a few waiting gurneys.

A keening cry erupted from somewhere else up ahead, at a point completely different from where the corpse had just fallen. Prying fingers clutched at Wesker's ankle and he kicked out, suddenly aware that his earlier fears of being surrounded were becoming true. Slapping his hand back to the wall, he moved forward at the fastest pace he could manage. Nearby gurneys banged and clattered to the floor as mindless drones crudely pushed their way through them.

_Forget the gun, forget fighting, _he growled to himself as the wails of the dead echoed around him._ The next time this happens, I am _leaving_. William can fight his own way out or die, for all I care. Spencer will find a way to salvage T, one way or another_.

Wesker's panicked fingers caught in a seam unexpectedly, drawing him to an abrupt halt. Immediately he swiped the flat of his hand across the wall, reveling in the feel of smooth metal beneath his skin. It was a door.

A door to where, though? Hopefully a room with light, though it really didn't matter. _Anything_ was better than his current location. His exploring fingertips found the door's handle and he was quick to jerk it downward, hoping against hope that it didn't require a key.

It didn't, one small miracle. The door swung towards him without so much as a whisper, revealing a space as black as the one he was standing in. So much for being able to see where he was headed. Fingers prodded incessantly at his shoulder, and that was all the incentive he needed. Stepping past the threshold, he slammed the door shut behind him. He felt out a small latch on the door and threw it, locking the door against the creatures bumping and banging against the opposite side. It would probably hold them, at least for a little while. So long as the room wasn't a dead end, he ought to be fine.

Wesker proceeded cautiously into the blackness, never knowing if the next step would send him plunging down some empty shaft or stumbling over an unseen obstacle. Based on the echoes of his breathing, he was in a much smaller space than the preceding room. He wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not, although he hadn't encountered any gurneys or undead yet. That had to count for something.

No sooner had that thought crossed his mind did his leading foot slam into something very solid. Made clumsy by fatigue and injury, Wesker stumbled forward involuntarily, only barely managing to catch himself with his outstretched hand on what was clearly an incline. It was obvious to him, as he reoriented himself in the darkness, that he'd encountered a set of stairs; he could feel each step digging uncomfortably into his side. Where they led to, he had no idea—probably not a place up in the labs, or else he would've discovered the path much earlier. They did, however, lead somewhere in an upwards direction, and that was good enough for him. He began the ascent.

They did not take him very far. He managed to count out a floor's worth of flights before rudely colliding with an unexpected wall. Made of metal and slightly hollow sounding when he tapped it, Wesker deduced it was a door, and immediately searched the thing for a handle. There was a shallow depression along the right side that served this purpose; his questing fingers encountered a latch, which, upon depression, released the lock with a rather loud click.

The door swung outwards into more darkness, though this time the space wasn't empty. There was a cascade of plastic products as the door forged a path through them, and as Wesker stepped across the threshold something long and narrow smacked him in the shoulder. He slapped it away and kicked his way through a tangle of junk on the ground before promptly meeting another door; the space he was in was by no means large. Behind him the door to the stairs closed and locked with another audible clack, and Wesker found himself hoping he hadn't just trapped himself. A quick study of the stairwell door revealed that this side of it was covered in a layer of concrete and completely featureless—just an ordinary wall, by all appearances.

_A secret exit_.

There was no going back.

He turned around and returned to the other door, which was fortunately outfitted with a knob. It wasn't locked, either; pulling it towards himself, Wesker soon found himself staring out into the fourth floor corridor. Red light flooded his vision, almost bright in comparison to what he'd just been through. Walking out of what he realized was the janitor's closet, Wesker entered the fourth floor hall.

_How is it that after all this time and effort, I've ended up exactly where I started?_

Utterly exhausted, the man collapsed back against the closet door with a weary sigh and let himself sink down to the floor.

_I just need a minute..._

Draping his good arm over his folded knees and letting his forehead rest against the crook of his elbow, Wesker closed his eyes and let his mind go blank.

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><p><strong>Yeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaah back to the beginning! Don't worry, though, it isn't going to take him ten chapters to get back up to wherever he was before. <strong>


	14. Bonnie and Clyde

**Every time I write a chapter that only has William and/or Annette in it, I feel like there's something missing. The most sensible explanation is probably the absence of Wesker, but if there actually is a seemingly large chunk of story missing from the following chapter do let me know. I proofread these things, of course, but mistakes do happen. Often.**

* * *

><p>A horrible thought occurred to William as Annette huddled against him on the floor. He tried to wrestle free of his wife's grip, but she was like a vice around his body. He couldn't wriggle loose. He did, however, manage to get one hand around her elbow, and from there he fought to pry her hand from his mouth.<p>

"Will—" she hissed out, fighting him.

He got her fingers off his mouth. "Annette, honey, we have a problem," he said quickly, before she could silence him again. Sure enough, her hand reasserted itself over his mouth at the first opportunity.

"You _think?_" she whispered out furiously, before shushing him. They both heard the subject's distinctive footsteps as she ventured further down the hall, drawing ever closer to their position.

Birkin shook his throbbing head viciously and sent the world spinning. Clamping his eyes shut, he peeled Annette's hand away again. "It's not that! It's—"

"_Be quiet!_" Annette tackled him and mashed his face into the floor, and he got a mouthful of dust. He writhed for about half a second, until a snarl from the vicinity of the lab doorway brought him to a sudden halt.

The subject took a step into the lab.

"Shit," Annette breathed into his ear, so quietly it was nearly inaudible. Chancing William's cooperation, she unwound herself from his crumpled body and reached towards the cabinet under the lab bench's sink. The doors swung open silently, a lucky break. Even more luckily, the space was nearly empty save for a few coils of distensible plastic tubing.

Wrapping a hand in his lab coat, Annette tugged him towards the space. He knew what she wanted, and he didn't fight her. It was rather cramped, though. He flattened the tubing beneath his back and curled up his legs as best he could, but his knees still bumped into the bench above. The curve of the sink's belly only made things even more difficult. He looked over to Annette, his obvious question hanging there silently in the air between them. She advanced.

"Try not to panic," she whispered, folding her body over his. Suddenly the space went from cramped to suffocating, and Birkin felt a flare of panic as she went to shut the doors behind them.

Feeling his body go taut beneath her, she tried to soothe him. "It'll only be for a second, William," she said softly, her lips brushing his ear as she spoke.

That knowledge did not help him. He broke out into a cold sweat as soon as the doors closed, plunging them into total darkness. All he could feel was Annette on top of him, the tubing beneath him, and the walls on every other side.

He was surrounded.

Trapped.

He could feel the space getting smaller, his knees aching as the bench pressed down against them. His arms went numb as they were crushed against his body, and his spine crimped as the space under the sink became too short for it. "Ugh," he moaned thickly, flexing his fingers and trying to get comfortable. He couldn't move an inch, however—there was no extra space—and his heart flew into overdrive.

Annette felt it. "Shhhh," she whispered, running her fingers through his bangs. "You're fine. Just think of nice, big, open spaces," she murmured soothingly.

"That never works," Birkin replied, trying and failing to swallow. Was his throat swelling? It felt like it was swelling. He was pretty sure it was swelling. He tried to lift a hand to reach his imperiled trachea and confirm his suspicions, but Annette's weight kept the limb pinned to the floor and he felt his panic rise another level. Grunting, he tried to shift his weight and knocked his knee against the wall.

Somewhere in the lab, the subject let out another warning growl.

"Okay, okay," Annette whispered quickly, giving his chest a perfunctory pat. "Just close your eyes?"

Despite himself, Birkin felt a flash of annoyance. "If it was that easy—"

"I know, I know," Annette hastily corrected herself. "Shhhh."

Beyond the thin cabinet doors, they could hear the subject shuffling around the lab. She was close.

Birkin wished she would just get on with it and either find them or leave them alone. He couldn't stand the tension, hated waiting and not knowing what was going to happen. He did know, however, that if he didn't get out from under the sink soon he was going to have a fit, and then if the subject was around they really would be dead. He just had to try to contain himself until she passed by. Sucking in a shuddering breath, Birkin closed his eyes slowly and tried to will himself into a more relaxed state.

Easier said than done. His heart was still hammering wildly in his chest, and it still felt as though he could barely breathe.

Annette licked her lips before leaning even closer, shaping her mouth around his ear to keep her voice from traveling beyond the confines of the cabinet. "Maybe," she suggested slowly, "you could tell me what had you so bothered earlier. Remember? You said we had a problem."

"Wha...?" For a long moment, Birkin had no idea what she was talking about, and he couldn't drag his mind away from their current predicament long enough to think about it. But then, as his eyes strained to see something in the complete darkness of the cabinet, it returned to him in a rush. His body went rigid with a different kind of panic. "Oh. Oh no," he said, voice rising to threatening levels. "Annette, it's the_ power_."

"It's off," she supplied for him, pressing a finger to his lips and urging him to lower his volume.

"Exactly," he sighed, mournful. "They're _dying_."

"What are?"

Before he could answer, they heard a scuffing noise from right outside the cabinet, and both scientists froze. They listened in tense silence to the rough breaths that left the subject's lips in bursts; for a long while, no one moved. Not them, nor the subject.

_Does she know where we are? How well do her ears work?_

Birkin had hardly been able to hear Annette, and she'd been speaking directly into his ear. Then again, he might have been a little louder. He tensed, expecting the worst, only to jump slightly when the subject let out a grating growl of frustration and stomped away.

He let out the breath he'd been holding.

Annette hadn't forgotten their aborted conversation. Leaning into him, she asked, "Who's dying?"

"My cultures," he said softly. In the distance, he could hear the subject's footsteps receding into whispers.

Annette pulled away in disbelief, only to lean in close again a minute later. "Your _cultures?_"

Birkin tried to nod, but his head was rather fixed in place. "Yes," he replied. "Without the power the incubators won't be working. Those cells are going to die if I don't move them soon," he explained.

Annette's fingers twisted in his lab coat. "I think, William," she began, tone sharp despite her volume, "that we have more _important_ things to be concerned about than a few _cells_."

He couldn't hear the subject at all anymore, so he pushed open the cabinet doors with his arm, breathing a sigh of relief at the intrusion of the soft crimson light. "It isn't just a few _cells_," Birkin argued, trying to move out of the cabinet. Annette's weight, however, held him in place, and she didn't look like she was ready to move anywhere any time soon. "I'll lose the entire line. This isn't something I can just replace at the drop of a hat," he responded testily. "I developed this neural culture specifically for T and it took me months to do. If they all die out now it might be another _year_ before I can make up for it!"

"At least you'll have a year!" Annette contested. "If you run out there now you're looking at a life expectancy of five minutes!"

"I'm not going to just let them die!"

"There's nothing you can do! And what about Wesker? Weren't you _just_ harping on about helping him out? You've got to make a plan and _stick_ to it, William!"

The mention of Wesker caught Birkin off-guard; he didn't want to think he'd forgotten about his friend's predicament, but he certainly had pushed it to the back of his mind.

"Al? Did you find him?"

Annette shook her head. "No. The elevator definitely fell past the fourth floor, but the stairs don't go any further down. I don't know how to get down to him."

"Okay," Birkin acknowledged, thinking quickly. "Well, if you can't reach him, then the subject probably can't either, right? So he's probably the safest out of all us, so long as he doesn't move out of wherever he is."

"Oh? Are you finally admitting that he doesn't need our help?"

"Given the situation," Birkin prevaricated. "But I _need_ to get back to my lab!"

"What do you expect to _do_?" Annette challenged. "Lug the entire incubator to the mansion? That's _insane_."

Birkin glared at her. She clearly didn't understand how much of a setback those cultures would cause if they died. But then again, she'd never appreciated his research enough. If Wesker were there, he would be more understanding.

Maybe. Wesker had convinced him to abandon his lab in the first place, so perhaps neither of them really cared enough. Well, that just meant _he_ would have to save the cultures himself, since no one else was going to. Someone had to make sure the project didn't fall apart.

"Look," Birkin explained, gently pushing Annette off of him. She slid to the side, avoiding the sink, and then helped him out of the cramped cabinet. "There's a little generator in the lab next to mine. The guy there used to use it because the rats kept chewing through his wires last year. I think he still has it, so all we need to do is borrow it."

"He'll let you do that?" Annette was skeptical. "Umbrella employees aren't exactly keen on sharing."

"He's probably dead, so I doubt he'll offer much resistance," Birkin replied casually, glancing over the top of the bench towards the doorway. No subject in sight. "But we have to hurry. Those cells are getting colder every second that we waste."

"This is crazy, William," Annette sighed, batting her hands against her blood-soaked clothes in a futile effort to shake off the dust she'd accumulated.

"If we get into trouble we can just use the guns," he replied, nodding towards the weapons still sitting on the bench.

Annette gave him an incredulous look. "You _know_ those don't work against her!"

"They work well enough," he contested. "I just—I can't just run away and leave those cells to _die_, Annette. Not when they're finally starting to show some promise."

She still clearly had reservations about the whole idea as she slowly hefted up the rifle. Holding the firearm, she sighted down along its length before shaking her head in exasperation. "I can't condone this lunacy," she murmured. "They're still _just_ cells, no matter how you look at them."

"They aren't just any old cells," Birkin retorted sharply. "They're _important_. I need to save them if I can." He edged towards the door, but Annette snagged his arm before he could pass through it.

"And the subject? What are you going to do about her? She's on the hunt right now. How do you expect to get past her to the stairs?"

"Sneak around?" Birkin replied, annoyed. "I don't know. I'll figure that out once I see where she is."

"You know, I actually wish Wesker _were_ here right now," Annette said. "I'm pretty sure he'd agree with me, for once, and he'd _never_ let you get away with this."

"We'll be fine if we just watch out for each other," he responded. "We've made it through worse."

She gave him a flat stare. "No. No we haven't."

He flashed her a crooked smile. "Well, then, this'll be a great story to tell Sherry some day."

Annette's brows rose. "If you want to give her nightmares."

"When she's older. Like, thirty, maybe."

"At this point I'm thinking we'll be lucky to see her next birthday." She leaned over next to him, sweeping the hall for any sign of the subject. The corridor, however, was empty. "Any idea on which lab she might've ducked into?"

Birkin checked the floor for footprints, but whatever blood the subject might've been tracking around had dried. There wasn't so much as a splatter to be seen by their door. "Well, she probably wouldn't head back towards the stairwell yet," he guessed. "So one of those." He gestured towards the two labs flanking the elevator shaft. His supposition was supported by a small metallic crash from within the lab across the hall.

"Let's go." Dragging him forward, Annette raced up the hall to the adjacent lab. The door was already ripped open, and she threw them both inside, motioning for silence as she listened for any signs of the monster.

There were no screams of rage, however, so Birkin assumed that the creature hadn't detected their departure. "Does this mean you're willing to help me out?" he asked, distractedly pressing a hand to the back of his head. It was really starting to ache again.

"Well, it'll at least get us off this floor," Annette agreed reluctantly. "It's still a stupid idea, though."

Birkin glanced back out into the hall again; the way remained clear. "Think we can make it to the next one before she comes out?"

"How the hell should I know? But it's probably better to run for it than sit around too long waiting."

They traversed the hallway in that fashion, jumping from lab to lab as they waited for the subject to show herself. They made it almost all the way to the corner, however, before that finally happened.

Annette noticed it first. Sucking in a breath, she threw out her arm to block Birkin from stepping out into the corridor. Leaning over her arm, he managed to score a glance down the hall. At the far end he saw the hulking form of the subject lurch out of her lab of refuge. She didn't notice the two Birkins in the doorway, but they did have the advantage of distance in that regard. Instead of crossing the hall to the other lab as they expected, however, she huddled down near the lip of the elevator shaft.

And then she sat there, frozen, with no apparent intention of moving on.

"Okay. That's great. Just perfect. What do we do now?" Annette muttered. "I can't tell if she's looking up the hall or down the shaft from here."

Birkin's grip on the sub-machine gun tightened. He could practically _feel_ those cells slowly dying. They couldn't just sit there and wait for the subject to do something; they could very well end up waiting forever.

"If we attack now," he said, his mouth going dry at the thought, "we might be able to knock her back into the shaft."

"_Absolutely not_. I saw her climb up the shaft. That really won't stop her at all."

"Make a run for it?"

"That's suicide," Annette pointed out. "Even if she isn't looking this way she might notice the movement."

Birkin retreated back into the lab, his eyes rapidly scanning the benches for something, anything that might be of use. Most of the lab space was devoted to analytical devices, though, each of which was far too large to be moved. There was a series of lockers off to the side, however, that the subject had previously trashed. Two of them were accessible to Birkin; the first he checked was empty, but the second contained a duffel bag filled with gym clothes and, more importantly, a basketball.

"A distraction?" Annette guessed when he carried it back to the doorway where she was standing. She took one look at his trembling limbs and swaying body and confiscated the ball before Birkin could protest. "Allow me. I think I've got more coordination than you right now."

Birkin couldn't argue that—the world still seemed to be rocking gently around him, though he'd more or less adjusted to the sensation a while ago.

Annette wound up and then chucked the ball down the hall, withdrawing into the lab the minute it left her fingers. Birkin crouched down beside her, and they both waited for the ball's first bounce.

When it came, the subject let out an unholy scream. There was the thunderous pounding of footsteps, alarmingly fast, as the beast closed in on her prey, which just as suddenly stopped when she captured it. Both scientists flinched when they heard the ball rupture. For a minute all the subject did was growl, but when that began to taper off, Birkin chanced a peek into the hall.

The subject, her face to the floor like a dog on a scent, stalked into one of the labs in the middle of the corridor. A little close for comfort, but at least they'd gotten her out of the hall.

"Come on," he said to Annette before making a dash for the corner. His wife followed on his heels as they rounded it, and they made a beeline for the stairwell together. It was dark, but the open doorway gave them enough light to find the first steps by. The rest were easy enough to manage, even for Birkin.

They reached the next landing without incident, and Birkin immediately set a course for his lab. Annette had to help him slide open the door, since it was rather inclined to stay closed without any electrical power, and it slammed shut behind them once they'd entered.

"That's going to be annoying," Annette observed while Birkin went straight to his cultures. He didn't dare open the incubator and let out whatever residual warmth might be lingering inside, but the inner glass door wasn't as warm as he would have wanted it to be. The cultures were already colder than he expected.

"We don't have much time," he declared worriedly, turning around to find Annette poking at a smear of blood on one of his lab benches.

"The subject was here?" she asked, looking perplexed. "She certainly didn't do much damage."

"No, that was...ah, that was from Al."

"From when the subject got him?"

"Something like that," Birkin responded evasively.

"He's lucky to have gotten away from her by himself," Annette mused.

"Uh, yeah. Um," Birkin shook his head, trying to focus. He'd rather not be reminded of his little accident...Wesker was already going to make his life hell enough for that, Birkin was certain. "We've got to get the generator _now_," Birkin reminded her, pulling at the lab door. "The cultures aren't doing too well."

They returned to the first floor hall and quickly made their way over to the lab neighboring Birkin's. The door to it was just as difficult to open.

"You know, I don't think the subject came up to this floor," Annette puffed out as she struggled with the door.

"Luckily enough," Birkin responded, just as short of breath.

"Well, I'm thinking that if she didn't, that might mean," Annette started, pausing as they let the door shut behind them with a bang, "that the people up here—"

"HEY! GET OUT OF MY LAB!"

"Might still be alive," she finished, just as a pudgy man with short black hair and rounded spectacles popped up from behind one of the lab benches.

"You aren't supposed to be in here!" he shouted, indignant. A harsh beam of white light swung around and blinded them both as he brandished a flashlight in their direction. "Dammit, Birkin, I _knew_ it would be you!"

"Calm down," Annette growled, wincing at the man's bellowing voice. The flashlight centered on her, and she had to squint against the glare.

"What the hell happened to you?" he asked, alarmed, as he retreated back a few steps.

Annette shared a look with William. "Keep your voice down," she said instead. "We've got a situation going on right now. There's no time to explain."

"Yeah, I noticed that the power's off. When are they going to fix it, huh? I can't get anything done like this," the scientist snapped. He couldn't seem to take his eyes off Annette's lab coat. "That's blood, isn't it? Was there some sort of outbreak? Are you infected?" And then, to their alarm, he ripped open a drawer and leveled a revolver her way.

"Hey!" Birkin shouted, raising his sub-machine gun. "Take the gun off of her!"

The man jumped and spun, aiming the weapon at Birkin. Annette brought her own rifle up to bear. "You're outgunned," she informed him coldly. "Put the gun down and sit in the corner."

"No! Get the fuck out of here!" he snapped, swinging the gun nervously from Annette to Birkin and back to Annette again.

"Put it down!" Birkin warned, advancing on the panicked man.

The man fixed his firearm on Birkin, clearly intending to use it, and the young scientist wisely halted in his tracks, though he was slow to muster any other, more protective, reactions. Annette picked up his slack, firing her own weapon. The fat man screamed, dropping his gun and throwing up his hands defensively as her warning shots buried themselves in the ceiling.

"You crazy bitch!" he cried out tremulously, glaring at Annette from between his splayed fingers. "Are you trying to fucking kill me?"

"You'd be dead if I were," she growled. "Now sit down and shut up."

"What do you want from me?" he warbled out, backing away as Birkin retrieved the revolver from the floor.

"Your generator," Birkin replied, aiming both guns in the man's direction. He couldn't really hold them steady, but the other scientist didn't seem to notice.

"My...?" The man's wide-eyed expression collapsed into a frown. "No, no way pal. You can't have it. I _need_ it."

"You aren't even using it!" Birkin snapped, swinging an arm out towards the silent interior of the lab. None of the machinery was running.

"It's mine!" the man stubbornly asserted.

Birkin lunged towards the scientist, who toppled backwards with a yelp. He tried to scramble away, but Birkin was faster. Placing the muzzle of the revolver against the man's temple, Birkin leaned forward and ground the gun into the man's flesh. "Tell me where it is," he said, voice dropping as he imitated Wesker's own intimidating drawl.

"Jesus! Don't fucking shoot!"

"_Tell me_ where the generator is," Birkin repeated, a cold sweat breaking out over his forehead. For every minute they were wasting there, those cultures were…

"It's—_Jesus_—it's over there," he replied shakily, an arm lifting to point towards a pile of machinery near Annette. "Under the tarp."

Birkin kept his gun trained on the trembling scientist while Annette located the tarp and ripped it from the object it was covering. When Birkin recognized the small gasoline-powered generator, he stood up and gave the man some room. He didn't take the gun off of him, though. "Does it still have fuel in it?"

"Gah—I don't know. I haven't used it in _months_. It should, I think," the man babbled. "Just take it and get out of here!"

It was too heavy for either of them to lift alone, so he and Annette had to work together to carry it to the door. During that time they had to take their guns off the other man, but he made no attempt to hinder their efforts, save for sending an occasional curse their way.

It was even harder to deal with the generator and the doors at the same time, but at that point Birkin was willing to put up with all manner of inconvenience just to keep his cultures alive. Eventually they got the generator back to his lab, and he set it up on the lab bench next to the incubator. Between him and Annette they manage to get it hooked up, and then they shared another look as Birkin's finger hovered uncertainly over the power switch.

"This had better work," Annette said, her brittle composure about three seconds away from snapping explosively into a million pieces of pure, unadulterated rage.

Not particularly wanting to face her wrath or lose his cultures, Birkin was rather fervently hoping for the same thing. He nervously flicked the switch, and for a few seconds nothing happened. Then the machine let out a rough cough before kicking into gear and filling the lab with the guttural sounds of its running motor. The indicator light on the incubator flashed on, and Birkin broke out into a smile as he felt the machine hum with life.

"It's working," he announced gleefully, a ponderous weight lifting itself from his shoulders and leaving nothing but relief in its wake.

"Good," Annette responded, straightening back up. "Now it's time to get going."

Birkin paused, hesitant. "Well..."

Annette frowned. "What _now?_"

* * *

><p><strong>Things are going to get weird(er?) from here on out.<strong>


	15. Black Sunshine

There had to be a way to stop the subject.

That way probably did not include passing in and out of consciousness at random intervals, but Wesker no longer had complete autonomy over his body and was subject to its whims, which now frequently included collapsing from what he suspected was a disadvantageous combination of exhaustion, pain, and blood loss. He'd already toppled over twice while meandering down the hall from the closet, heading, for lack of a better destination, towards his ruined lab. There was some sense of security in the familiar, after all, especially considering the horrors the cavernous basement had just put him through.

This sense of safety, however, was rather strongly discredited by the sight of Creed's exposed intestines, still spilled over the floor in gray, vilely odiferous coils. He only narrowly managed to circumvent the displaced organs—his shoed heel nearly crushing a particularly far-flung loop, the consequences of which would have been dire beyond imagining—and headed towards the vivarium.

His inability to affect a straightened posture and the tendency of his feet to drag lent him an incredibly similar appearance to that of the undead he'd only barely managed to escape back down in the basement, a detail that utterly escaped his notice at the moment. Most details, in fact, were currently avoiding his attention; he wasn't even sure what his immediate goal was. Having become well acquainted with the stairs over the past few hours, the blond was all too aware of just how impossible it was going to be for him to climb all those flights back to the surface. Stopping the subject seemed like an even more insurmountable task, but if there was a way to do it, the best chance he had of finding it was going back to the scene of the crime.

Maybe. Really it was just a way to rationalize the path his feet were currently taking him down; he had very little conscious control over them at the moment, or so it felt. So long as he was moving, though, he was staying awake, and that was the most important part of his entire scheme.

Then his brain abruptly went on strike; with no signals from his central nervous system to coordinate it, his body pitched to the floor in a tangle of limbs. Had Wesker not just blacked out, he would have been rather aggrieved by the sensation of his face and bad shoulder smashing into solid concrete at a rather unforgiving velocity. As it were, he was going to wake up in even greater agony than before.

Unfortunately, and largely in part to the dogs barking abrasively from their cages not but a few feet away, the scientist returned to awareness much sooner than his brain intended. Conscious of an unpleasant throbbing sensation emanating from every portion of his body, the man shakily regained his feet and continued forward, stumbling along like a chronic alcoholic until he half-fell into the human room.

He absently swept at the blood trickling from his nose with the gritty back of his hand and jerked his head to the right, the rest of his body reluctantly following, until he passed a bank of counters and encountered _the door_.

It wasn't just any old door; it had been built to be impenetrable. Bulletproof, fireproof, and blast proof, it consisted of at least a solid foot of reinforced steel and had one of the most advanced locks in the facility. The subject wasn't going to barge her way out, and no one was going to break in, at least not easily.

Such was the theory, any way. Clearly something had been overlooked, for the door Wesker was standing in front of was ajar. There were no visible signs of damage, and the keypad and card reader were intact, by all appearances untampered with. Which meant that an employee must have opened the door, except...only three people had the access codes for the room beyond.

Those three being Birkin, Spencer, and Wesker.

Wesker heaved the door open with some difficulty, it being extremely heavy and almost unmanageable given his current physical condition. The circular room beyond was lit only dimly by a single emergency light in the center of the ceiling, but it was enough for Wesker to see by. The hospital-style bed the subject normally lay on was almost pristine; save for a crumpled sheet, it hardly looked disturbed at all. The machines that normally monitored her vitals were also mostly intact, though one had been knocked down. All of them were off; whether it was from the power outage or an earlier disablement, he could not be sure. Except for the missing subject, the scene was essentially as it should be, more or less.

Save for the body at the foot of the bed. Wesker advanced on it slowly. Obviously it couldn't be him or Birkin, but if it were Spencer...what would Umbrella do then? Would Marcus take over?

_That might be a good thing_, Wesker mused. _Or bad, if the rumors about his slipping sanity are true._

He reached the body and nudged it over onto its back with his foot. It was immediately apparent that it was not Spencer; in fact, it was not one of their employees at all. Wesker was confident about that, he knew everyone there at least by name and face, if not family history. He'd never seen this particular man before in his life.

He bent down over the body and snatched the ID card pinned to its lab coat. Leaning back on his heels, he held the slip of plastic up to the lights and examined it with a critical eye.

_Yuri Mahalov_.

Wesker frowned; he definitely didn't know the name. That set off alarm bells, for it would have been difficult to forget something so obviously Russian. The photo matched the body, and the employee ID number looked legitimate enough. Wesker was even willing to be that the magnetic strip on the back of it worked just like a real card's should. But it was still a forgery—a very good one, but a fake nonetheless. Even if he had managed to get into the building, "Yuri" should never have been able to reach the fourth floor, let alone access the subject's chamber. Clearly Umbrella's security had been severely compromised somewhere.

Tossing the card aside, he resumed his examination of the body. Underneath the man's shirt he found a sort of sling wrapped around his torso, complete with six small metal tubes strapped within it. Withdrawing one, he quickly ascertained that it was empty. They all were. But he'd clearly been after something, most likely samples. For whatever reason, though, the subject had awoken before he could get them, and she had killed him.

_But why? What woke her up?_

If he could figure that out, he might be able to find a quick way to put her out again.

Unfortunately, there were no obvious clues to go by. It should have been easy to see them, given the room's neat condition—there wasn't even _blood_, the subject had simply snapped old Mahalov's neck. That nothing jumped out at him suggested that there was nothing to see. The would-be spy might not have done anything, might have simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Wesker narrowed his eyes at the thought. He doubted that the man's intrusion and the subject's awakening were coincidental. But why would the man try to wake her up in the first place? Nothing good could come from that, even if the subject hadn't turned out to be a homicidal psychopath. And how had he done it? Wesker had tried to provoke some sort of cerebral response from her with a number of chemical stimulants for the past few years, to no avail.

_What the hell happened here?_

He circled the perimeter of the room, eyes studying every inch of the room. There had to be _something_ he was missing.

_There it is._

His eyes caught on a small object lying beneath the flat plastic slab that served as the bed's mattress—which, coincidentally, was actually looking temptingly comfortable to Wesker's depleted body. He forcefully ignored the urge to lie down and stared at the little chunk of plastic instead. Presumably it had been kicked there, no doubt by Yuri shortly before his death. Leaning down, Wesker retrieved the item.

It was a syringe, used and empty. Whatever had been in it was gone now, possibly in the subject, and he had no way of determining just what it might have been. "Useless," he muttered to himself, dropping the syringe onto the bed. If that had been what had woken her up, he was still no closer to figuring out a good way to put her down.

"Idiot," Wesker told the body as he returned to its side. He rifled quickly through its pockets, but they were all empty. "You've made my life rather difficult today," he continued, checking the man's coat. It was a standard lab coat, though, no secrets there. There was, however, something strapped under his shoulder. Something like a holster.

Further examination revealed it to be the sheath for a combat knife, the knife still contained within. Apparently the subject had struck faster than the intruder could react—a supposition entirely consistent with the abilities she'd already displayed. Wesker drew the blade out, glancing at its serrated edge with interest. Annette had managed to draw blood with her tiny scalpel; this new knife could probably do much worse if applied to the right area. Grinning darkly to himself, Wesker straightened and stiffly performed a few experimental slashes with the weapon. It was no curare, but it might do the trick in a pinch.

The battered researcher spent the next few minutes ensuring that he hadn't overlooked anything else in the room—as expected, there was nothing else worth scrutinizing. Once he was satisfied, he turned on his heel and left the way he'd come.

By the time he reached his lab, he needed to sit down again; he was rather proud that he'd made it all the way back down the hall without collapsing, though, and considered the break well-deserved. Setting the knife on the bench, he mopped at the sweat on his brow and leaned over the sink, contemplating the slope of its stainless steel interior. There was a fire kindling in his lower belly, fierce, sparking pain that crackled viciously with every movement he made, and it was steadily growing worse. He hadn't taken any direct attacks to that area, but presumably getting thrown around and falling several floors in an elevator had been traumatizing enough to elicit some degree of internal damage. The exact severity and nature of the wounds he could not know, but the growing pain was steadily rising beyond the level of "merely distracting". He considered taking a page out of William's book and briefly entertained inducing vomiting, but it seemed like more effort than it was worth. Since he couldn't see how it would really help in any case, either, he settled for dashing some cold water onto his cheeks instead and tried to rest in a position that didn't cause him considerable discomfort.

It was absolutely impossible. He'd been injured in almost every conceivable way, and the wounds were only getting worse with time and neglect. Regrettably, he didn't have any painkillers conveniently lying around. Plenty of poison and other horrors in the fridges behind him, but nothing immediately useful, so long as his goal remained staying alive. There _was_ a supply of ketamine in the vivarium, but he was already exhausted to the point of unpredictable collapse. He couldn't chance any sedative effects, which left him very few options and thoroughly ruled out any and all opioids.

Of course, striking out the traditional therapeutics didn't leave him empty-handed, especially not when he was sitting in the middle of an Umbrella laboratory. Not when the place was filled with bored scientists in constant need of killing time while waiting for experiments to run to completion. Birkin himself was a prime example—his impatience, combined with an unparalleled knack for organic chemistry, had led to the creation of a number of substances of both questionable efficacy and legality. Most of those creations had ended up in the waste bins, where they belonged, but some had escaped that fate, for various reasons. While the ones Wesker knew of wouldn't really constitute as painkillers, they could probably take the edge off—and possibly keep him awake on the side, too.

It was better than nothing. Groaning, he began pulling drawers at random until he found the one with sheets of blank blotter paper stacked within. Each was impregnated with a chemical carnival, or so William claimed. Wesker had never touched them before—neither, to his knowledge, had William—and he didn't relish the notion of acting as a guinea pig, but circumstances had spiraled out of control and he needed the boost.

He placed the corner of one—hardly more than a sliver of paper, he didn't dare take more—in his mouth and tasted metal; grimacing, he stuffed the sheet back into the drawer and slid to the floor. It was more comfortable down there.

Closing his eyes, he waited.

A minute passed, and he felt sleepy.

Ten. His chin nodded into his chest and his stomach responded with a wave of heated pain that briefly choked off his breath. He lifted his head, let it clunk back into the lab bench, and swallowed dryly. Maybe he needed to take more.

An hour, or maybe only half.

Lights winked to life behind his eyelids, small pinpricks that danced around one another in dizzying patterns of loops and spirals. For a moment he was mesmerized, unable to open his eyes, until his heart suddenly turned over with a few thumps and jumped into overdrive. He sat up with a gasp, heat—the good kind—flooding through his body, accompanied by surge of energy from reserves that should have been long exhausted.

Oh, it was working. Better than expected.

The raging furies that had taken possession of his body and limbs eased their assault, the combined agonies of a countless number of injuries fading into the background. He unfolded slowly from the floor, his body moving easily but strangely—there seemed to be a disparity between his mind and body, a disconnect that left him feeling unanchored from the sluggish physical plane. He found that his limbs responded to his commands, but they did so almost hesitantly, not with the fluid grace he usually strove for. His left arm was the worst off of all—there was still something very much wrong, there—but it didn't trouble him anymore. Nor did the aches and pains he knew he was still feeling. They were there, floating at the edge of his perceptions, but they were a degree removed from reality. They didn't matter, not now.

Ignoring the jackhammering of his heart, he swiped the sweat from his brow again and snatched the knife from the bench. The long blade glittered fantastically under the emergency lights; he twisted it back and forth, watching the radiance undulate from the pointed tip all the way to the bolster. Given the color of the environment, it looked remarkably like blood.

Wesker licked his lips and grinned absently. Soon enough it would be covered in blood—the subject's. He was going to slit her throat from ear to ear and watch as she drowned in her own filthy fluids; it was no more than she deserved. All he had to do now was find her—

Sudden movement near the floor monopolized his attention; he glanced down, his entire head moving to face the phenomenon fully.

Creed's intestines had come alive, reanimated by phantom lumps and bulges busily squeezing a peristaltic path through the muscular tubes. Fascinated, the blond bent down beside the exposed alimentary tract, prodding at the moving entities with the flat of his knife. The unseen things did not respond, obliviously continued along their way, masses of earthworms tunneling through the soft soil of indigestible waste. Suddenly seized by an absolute need to see these mysterious creatures for himself, he whipped the knife around and was fully prepared to slice through the obscuring layer of muscle and epithelial tissue blocking his view before the rational part of his brain briefly reasserted itself, telling him in no uncertain terms that what he was about to do was a Very Bad Idea.

Mildly disappointed, he watched as the intestines at his feet shuddered and quivered, imbued with some preternatural life force, and grudgingly accepted the warnings from his brain. He sheathed the knife, only to have it clatter loudly to the ground seconds later. Confused, he checked the sheath and found nothing but the folds of his own blood- and sweat-streaked shirt. This had him stymied for a moment, until he remembered that he'd never taken the sheath with him in the first place. Having solved the mystery, he scooped the knife back up, flipped it in his hand, and strode out of the lab with a distinct spring to his step. His original destination was the stairs, always the stairs, but at some point he started to stop at every other doorway instead, surveying the damage the subject had wrought—no admonishments from his cerebral cortex about that chosen action—whistling a nonsense tune he'd never heard before all the while to keep himself amused.

The door of the first stairwell he encountered was jammed. Not bothered in the least, he increased his pace and located one more familiar, its floor coated in a slick of old blood. Glancing up into the dark depths above, his whistle petered off into silence—no point in surrendering the element of surprise, after all. He couldn't remember the rest of the song, anyway.

Wesker roamed the third floor tirelessly, eyes darting to every doorway and recess for signs of his quarry. Thick shadows had annoyingly adopted the tendency to coalesce into hunched shapes, their weaving tentacles sliding across the floor like snakes and always distracting him from his true mission. A blink of the eyes would banish them, but they were ceaselessly reforming at the edges of his vision. He stabbed at them with the knife, silvery-red blade singing through empty air.

The subject wasn't in any of the labs, and thus, wasn't on the third floor. Wesker circled beneath the square hole in the corridor's ceiling, waiting for her to drop down. Silhouettes glared down at him from above with ghoulish faces, eyes red and throbbing. The monster herself didn't show, a disappointment. Undeterred by failure, Wesker wandered to the elevator shaft, fascinated by the darkness leaking out from within. He'd _fallen_ down that. How many others could say the same? The hoist way doors slid shut when he tugged at them; with a twitch of his arm, he knocked them open again with ease. Leaning into the shaft, he leered up at the opening to the second floor. Could he climb up to it? Severed cables hung lazily in space, swinging tantalizingly within reach.

The knife moved to his mouth, and his teeth clamped down on the smooth metal. He extended an arm, his fingertips seeking out the twisted cord. Flesh brushed cold steel and the cable suddenly struck, winding itself around his wrist before burying its fangs deep into his hand. Wesker flung himself backwards on reflex, breathing hard as he stared at the unmarred flesh of his palm. The unseen wound tingled, but did not hurt. Shaking his limb out, he slid the blade from his mouth, straightened, and took the stairs.

He ascended the steps three at a time, his feet matching the demanding pace of his heart. Teeth chattering, he sighted down the length of the second-floor hallway. Shadows shifted, glancing his way before oozing back into the ruined doorways of the labs. His flesh pimpled with goose bumps, but he didn't feel cold. He felt _great_, awkward sensations of dissociation notwithstanding, felt like he could run a marathon. Maybe down to Raccoon and back, maybe stop by the training facility and ask good old Marcus how the leeches were coming along. At the rate he was going he could take on the world without flinching.

He could certainly handle the subject, at the very least. What was a bit of bulletproof skin, really? Annette, the little shrew, had already drawn first blood despite that obstacle. Surely _he_ was more than capable of besting the beast. There wasn't much of a choice, was there? It would hardly do them any good to flee the subject and allow her to escape, after all. She had to die.

If she hadn't escaped already, that was. The facility was dead quiet, no sign of marauding monster or survivor to be seen. He didn't know how long he'd been out for. He didn't know if the Birkins were still alive or not. He didn't care. All he knew was that the creature was probably still on the loose, _somewhere_, he had a knife, and he was the only one who could stop her.

Labs passed by him at a blur, most empty even of bodies. "Not a lot of analysts in today," he commented to the snake-like shadows curling at his feet. Then he bared his teeth in a savage grin and laughed.

He wished he had more of the blotter paper. He felt so damn _good_.

One room, dark and gloomy, caught him off-guard with a veritable web of sound. It was a faint disturbance but all consuming, a thrum of vibration that clawed at his heart and sent his limbs shaking anxiously. There was something _there_, its unseen presence hounding every part of his body. His teeth clattered together again and he raised his head, eyeing the ceiling. The sound descended from on high, somehow leaking through the walls. He stared upwards, captivated. How could he get up there?

He shook his head as if to clear it and sent rivulets of sweat sliding down his face.

The stairs again. In his haste to reach the top he slipped and slammed a shin into concrete, but the flare of pain was brief and soon forgotten.

There was commotion on the first floor. Wesker recognized the corpulent form of Dr. Fischer trying to shove his way past a recalcitrant lab door. The man appeared enraged. He looked up when the stairwell door closed and saw Wesker standing there, watching him. Froze.

Wesker gave him a shark smile and waggled the knife in his direction.

Fischer's face paled. With a small cry, he fell back into his lab, the door subsequently slamming shut and blocking him from sight. Interest lost, Wesker turned on his heel and followed the faint vibrations emanating from the floor. They were coming from the lab above the one he'd just left—no surprise there. Wesker paced in front of the door, debating how he was supposed to get in. The subject had not been kind enough to rip her way through this one, at least not yet.

He didn't think he could force open the door with one hand, regardless of how good he felt. There were just some things he wasn't going to be able to pull off, no matter how hard he tried.

He tried nonetheless, just to test that hypothesis.

No dice.

Stepping back, he went with plan B.

He knocked.

* * *

><p><strong>I'm just going to say that I ripped the drug plot point straight from another one of my (unpublished) stories, which pretty much makes three stories that I've cannibalized for this one's sake. But it was such a <em>convenient <em>workaround for the debilitating injuries I'd saddled him with, so how could I not? The alternative was just having him shrug it off like the Birkins, which is lame and boring. Anyways, unlike in the other story, he's still pretty sane. I did consider having him trip out entirely, because that would've been a kick to write, but then he probably would've ended up falling back down the elevator shaft or getting lost in a corner somewhere until Lisa found and slaughtered him. So I kept it simple.  
><strong>

**It should be obvious, but just in case it isn't: Now that Wesker's riding the crazy train, his narrative is going to be rather unreliable from here on out. "Here on out", of course, being the next two chapters.**


	16. Let the Right One In

**I am so tired. Sorry this chapter is late, but up until about an hour or so ago I was deeply unsatisfied with it. Hopefully it is all right now, though honestly I might be too exhausted to really make a sound judgement on that end.**

* * *

><p>Annette frowned. "What <em>now?<em>"

Birkin scratched at his hair, looking sheepish or possibly sick; it was hard to tell with that man sometimes. "The generator's a rather...temporary solution," he said finally. "It'll last a few hours, maybe, but after that...we'll run into the same problem we had before."

Annette stared at her husband. "A few hours buys us enough time to get off this wretched mountain," she replied. "We can call in reinforcements, get the subject taken care of. Your cultures can last that long."

"We might have three hours. We might have three _minutes_. We don't know how much fuel the generator has."

"Well, the thing was awfully heavy. That's rather promising, don't you think?"

Birkin did not look convinced.

"What _else_ would you have us do?" Annette asked, exasperated. "There are no other options."

Birkin tapped idly at the top of the humming generator. "Well," he said, "Maybe—"

He broke off, startled into silence by a sudden bout of scratching along the edge of the lab's door. Both Birkins froze, exchanged a wary look. William stepped protectively in front of the incubator, and Annette felt a brief but potent pang of annoyance.

"I am very surprised," she whispered waspishly, "that Wesker was ever able to drag you out of here. And that you even remembered to go looking for me in the first place."

He gave her a look of innocent confusion while the door rattled ominously.

The noises against the door eventually settled into silence, but Annette was still wary. She'd seen what the subject normally did to doors, sure, but the monster wasn't above being crafty. This could just as easily be a new ploy intended to lull her prey into a false sense of security before springing the trap. Though if she really was engaging in that complex of plotting they were in even more serious trouble than Annette had first estimated.

Both she and William jumped when something banged against the door, three times in rapid succession. She frowned, turned back to William. It rather sounded like… "Knocking?" she whispered in consternation. Did the subject really know how to do that?

Birkin shrugged, then nodded his head towards the lab next door. "Could be our _friend_," he suggested with an aggrieved frown, though his voice lacked conviction.

"For his sake, it had better not be," she replied darkly, lifting her rifle. "I really will shoot him this time." Though, in all honesty, she'd much rather commit homicide than have to face down the subject again.

There was another series of knocks on the door, sounding slightly impatient. Annette rather doubted that the person...or monster...was just going to leave. Not with the generator churning merrily away, constantly broadcasting their location to pretty much anyone within several floors of the lab. They couldn't ignore it forever.

"Go away," she called out, edging along the wall, keeping out of range of the door and anything that might come through it.

"Let me in," an awfully familiar voice growled from the other side of the metal barrier.

Annette swung around, shooting William a look of incredulity. His face reflected a similar expression.

"_Wesker?_" she asked the door, voice sodden with disbelief.

"Who else? Let me _in_," he pressed. The door rattled once, a sign of his annoyance.

There was no way he could have found his way back up from the elevator shaft—it just wasn't humanly possible. And yet the subject had yet to display any sort of mimicry skills...Annette shook her head in disbelief, but accepted the truth all the same. The man was a cockroach, impossible to kill. If nothing else, that particular trait was proving itself convenient in their present situation.

She beckoned William over, though initially the man was visibly reluctant to peel himself away from his precious cultures. It was only after she pointed out that she couldn't very well open the door alone that he consented to assist her, and even then they had trouble. When, huffing and puffing, they were finally able to slide the door aside, there was Wesker, standing tall and camouflaged in blacks and reds.

"How did you—" Annette started to ask, only to stop when she really got a good look at him. He'd lost his lab coat somehow, that much was immediately obvious, and his left arm was tucked into his shirt. He was holding a long knife in the other hand. Every inch of him appeared to have been exposed to some sort of gray dust, as well. The stuff had clung to the sweat and blood decorating his skin, and overall he looked like he'd had a rather tough time of it. Sensible, considering the fact that she'd last seen him get flung into an elevator that had then plummeted several stories.

Except he didn't carry himself like an injured man at all. He swept past her and William, his stride smooth and unhindered. Annette frowned. He'd practically been limping the last time she'd seen him.

And where had he gotten the _knife? _Last time she checked, the lab didn't keep a regular stock of combat-grade blades.

"How did you get up here?" Annette asked, addressing the matter of greatest curiosity first. He _looked_ like he'd been carried up by a tornado.

"Janitor's closet," he replied cryptically, fixing her with a smirk, and then, oddly enough, _chuckling_.

Annette fought the automatic reflex to retreat, struck wary by his unusual behavior. Was he referencing some sort of private joke? She met Birkin's eyes, but William looked just as confused as she felt.

"There are zombies in the basement," Wesker added conversationally, as if he were reporting something as banal and trivial as the weather. As if zombies regularly infested the halls of the Arklay laboratories. As if this wasn't another serious, potentially life-threatening problem.

Annette gaped at him. "W-_what _? You _can't_ be serious. How…how can that be?"

"Lots of zombies," Wesker mused, nodding his head in deep agreement. "Rather tenacious when outside their cages."

She stared at him a little more closely, searching for any signs of bites or other possibly infected wounds, but the dim light and his dark clothing made the task pretty much impossible. "Are you okay?" she asked slowly. "They didn't bite you or anything, did they?"

He swiveled around, fixing a dark-eyed stare on her. "No, but you would like that, wouldn't you? Always looking for an excuse to put a bullet between my eyes," he growled, startlingly vitriolic.

"Now that's not tr—" Annette started to protest, but Wesker cut her off with a sharp motion of his knife, his head swinging back and forth as he clearly swept the room for something.

The blond—gray-haired now, considering the weird dust he was sporting—scientist stopped in the middle of the room and looked back to his confused colleagues. "Where's the subject?" he asked, earlier train of thought abruptly and entirely abandoned.

"We left her on the second floor," William replied, stepping away from the lab door. Annette cautiously followed suit, letting the slab of metal slam closed.

Wesker processed the information. "I did not see her down there."

Annette stared at her husband's friend. There was something off about him, and it wasn't just his oddly fast recovery. His expression was strange; even in the poor light it looked a little wild, a little unfocused.

"Are you _looking_ for her?" William asked, compulsively returning to his incubator. Annette sighed, inwardly. Both the men were a little bit crazy, it seemed. It should not have taken her so long to realize that, she supposed, but it did make her feel rather disadvantaged to be the only sane one in the room. Now, of all times, was hardly the appropriate moment to deal with any psychological irregularities.

Wesker grinned widely, revealing tightly clenched teeth, and Annette felt a chill shiver up her spine. Dammit, if he wasn't downright creepy sometimes. It was the first time she'd seen the man smile like that, and she hoped to god she'd never see it again.

"Hunting, to be more specific," he purred, eliciting a startled glance from William.

"You—you can't be serious!" he stuttered, utterly bemused. "Are you _trying_ to get yourself killed?"

Wesker cocked his head to the side, regarding the younger man with a blank expression. "You would rather have her running loose through the mountains?"

"Well, n-no," Birkin replied, perturbed. "But that's Umbrella's problem, not ours," he pointed out with a nervous laugh.

"And what if the subject finds her way to Raccoon City? Is it still merely Umbrella's problem then? They are our employers, you know. If they fall, we are almost certain to follow. Civilian casualties aside, the public would be demanding our heads as well, considering the fact that we practically made her."

Birkin stared openly at Wesker, horror dawning. "You didn't mention this before!"

Wesker shrugged with surprising elegance considering the arm he had trussed up in a makeshift sling.

Annette supposed he had a point, but there was also the matter of them being completely incapable of taking the subject down, especially in head-on combat. "Have you _completely_ lost your mind?" she asked carefully, just in case he _had_ and happened to take offense. So long as he had that knife in his hand, she wasn't about to go around provoking him willy-nilly. "You can't take her on with just _that_." She gestured to the long blade.

He glanced down at it as well, twisting it so that light slid along its smooth edge and caught in glimmering bursts within the serrations. "You certainly can't take her on with that," he parroted back at her, pointing to her gun with the knife.

"Unlike you, I don't intend to," Annette retorted defensively.

Wesker shrugged again, dismissed her with a derisive sweep of his eyes, and turned his attention to the incubator William was guarding. "Power," he commented, a hint of surprise evident in his voice.

William nodded to the generator, a rather unnecessary motion, considering that the machine was the loudest thing in the room. "Got it from next door," he explained. "Had to keep the cultures alive. That line is the closest thing I've got to T-resistant neurons," he said. "I couldn't just let them _die_."

Wesker stooped and peered through the glass door of the incubator, the interior of which was illuminated by a small, internal light. "Smart decision," Wesker said. William preened; Annette glowered.

"We had to take it at gun point," Birkin explained excitedly. "It was quite exhilarating! A shame you missed it."

"Indeed." Wesker glanced to Birkin. "I suppose that explains Fischer's anger," he added as an afterthought. Annette barely heard the comment. She was too busy staring at Wesker's face, starkly illuminated as it was by the white light of the incubator. There was something wrong there.

"Wait a second," Annette said, just as Wesker began to straighten and step back from the incubator. Avoiding his knife-wielding hand, she grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and pulled him down to her eye level. Behind her the incubator's light splashed Wesker directly in the face. He squinted slightly, but it didn't hide the fact that his pupils were wildly dilated, the normal blue of his eyes almost eclipsed by black. "What...did you hit your head?" she asked, even as he roughly knocked her hands away with a snarl. She backed away quickly as he straightened back to his full height, face disappearing once more into shadows.

_A concussion?_ she wondered, watching his knife hand as he frowned down at her.

"Not that it's any concern of yours, but _no_," he replied, bringing the knifepoint up level with the hollow of her throat. "Touch me again and I'll make you wish you hadn't," he added, a venomous afterthought. Then he blinked, the glare slipping from his face as quickly as it had come, and he glanced back into the depths of the room, as though expecting the subject to appear. The sudden cessation of his anger was not reassuring—he would never let her get away with grabbing him like that under normal circumstances, not with just a verbal warning. _Something_ was definitely wrong.

She shot William a questioning look, but her husband just raised his hands, palms up. He didn't know any more than she did.

"Not even when the elevator fell?" she pressed. "It might be hard to remember...do you have a headache?" She winced as soon as she asked it.

_What a stupid question. Of course_—

"No," he replied, more curtly than before. "I feel fine." Edging away, he began to circle the lab slowly, taking an abnormal interest in all its darkened corners. Annette watched him for a moment, then gave William a helpless look.

"Brain damage," she whispered.

"I don't think it's that bad," William replied, but his voice trailed off when he noticed Wesker staring into a corner, his head bobbing slightly as his eyes followed the movements of whatever he was looking at. Both Birkins could see, however, that there was nothing whatsoever in that particular space. "He seems fine otherwise?" Birkin offered, but it was clear that he didn't think that was true either.

Wesker began to pace impatiently in front of the door, his fluid movements reminiscent of a caged panther. That much, at least, contradicted her theory. If his brain was injured, she doubted he'd be moving so freely, let alone easily.

She glanced at William again. "Drugs?" she whispered. "Vicodin? Morphine?"

William shook his head. "I _wish_ he had some of that. I could really—" and then he stopped, suddenly thoughtful. Raising his voice, he directed his next question towards the restless blond. "You didn't raid the ketamine supply, did you?"

Wesker stopped, turned, and gave Birkin another one of his chilling smiles. "No," he replied. "There was something much, _much_ better."

Annette glanced to William for guidance, and noticed that the young man had paled. Hiding his eyes behind a hand, he muttered, "Oh no; no, no, _no_." Then, more loudly, "Not…the blotter paper?" Then, for Annette's benefit, he added under his breath, "Please don't let it be the blotter paper."

Wesker's grin only widened conspiratorially, and then he spun the knife deftly in his hand before slicing it through an invisible enemy.

"Care to tell me what's going on?" Annette asked. Judging by her husband's desolate expression, William had just figured it out.

"He might have…well…" he scratched absently at the back of his head, freshly bloodying the tips of his fingers without noticing. He studiously avoided Annette's probing gaze. "Uh, that is to say…."

"Just spit it out," Annette sighed, exasperated. "It can't be any worse than the whole secret test subject revelation."

"It—it might be drugs," William offered meekly. "Or, that is to say, it probably is. Most likely. Almost certainly."

Annette raised her eyebrows. "What sort of drugs are we talking about here?"

"Not particularly conventional…in the painkiller sense…or particularly legal, for that matter," he answered evasively, noting with growing desperation the way her mouth was sharply turning downwards in disapproval.

"Oh, William," she sighed, shaking her head. "What have you done _now_?"

"Nothing!" he protested quickly. "It wasn't like he was ever supposed to take them! We were just keeping them around in case…you know, we could slip them to a colleague or something, somehow. If the opportunity ever arose!"

She shot him a look of consternation. "Colleagues? This isn't poison, is it?"

"Well, no…it shouldn't be. I mean, it didn't kill any of the dogs," he explained hastily.

"Do you even know _what_ it is? Because I'm really starting to wonder about how much you actually know, given what you've told me so far."

William groaned, casting the ceiling a disparaging look. "I was just bored, that was _all._ I wanted to see how difficult it would be to synthesize a hallucinogen. And lysergic—"

"LSD," Annette interjected disbelievingly, cutting him off. "You made LSD and _gave it to Wesker._"

"No, that's not—well, I mean—it's like I said, he was never supposed to take it _himself_," William argued.

"But he did and now he's currently _tripping_ while a psychopathic monster is stalking us through this entire wretched facility. How does this help our situation is _any_ way? Please tell me, William, because I just can't seem to see it."

"He can't seem to feel pain," Birkin pointed out. "That's _something_. Besides, it's not like he's totally out of his mind. I was trying to make LSD, sure, but I hardly bothered with any sort of purification and I never analyzed the final product. He's probably got as much of the stuff in his system as he does inert byproducts. He still seems pretty lucid, all things considered."

"Let's hope," Annette muttered, "since there's nothing we can do about it now." She watched as Wesker circled slowly around the lab benches, absently clenching his teeth as he glared at shadows with unwavering scrutiny. "I don't like that knife," she added after a tense moment of silence between her and her husband. "And we are _not_, under _any _circumstances, giving him a gun."

"Agreed," William quickly assured her. "That would just…_not_ be the right decision, given the situation."

"We should probably get him out of here," Annette added. "Before he gets himself or one of us killed with these ridiculous hunting schemes of his."

"No arguments here," William replied. He did cast an uncertain glance towards his cultures, though. For a moment Annette anticipated trouble, until he tore his eyes away from the little pink tubes and focused back on his friend. "_How_, though?"

Annette watched as the blond played with his knife, tossing it up and catching it around its grip. Still no explanations on how he'd gotten it, but that didn't really matter now. Somehow they had to get him to the surface, get him as far away from the subject as possible. Whatever he was under the influence of—be it LSD or head trauma—it was clearly inspiring a mistaken belief in his own indestructibility, and he was bound to get himself killed because of it. And he'd probably drag them all down with him when that happened.

Well, she supposed, they could always offer him what he wanted. It wasn't as if he was in any state to be discerning whether they were being truthful or not.

"The subject's outside," Annette found herself saying. "On the surface. If you want her, we'll have to go up there."

Wesker caught the knife in his hand, turning slightly to regard her coldly with one black eye. Recalling the subject's own onyx gaze, Annette could not suppress a shudder at the eerie resemblance. "At the surface, you say," he drawled out slowly. The knife rotated in his hand until it was pointed downwards, his grip around the guard tight. "Do you think me a fool?" he growled out, advancing a step in her direction. Then another.

Annette gulped reflexively, retreating back a step for every one he took forward. "O-of course not," she replied, trying and failing to keep her voice strong.

Wesker cocked his head towards Birkin without taking his black hole eyes off Annette. "_He_ said she was on the second floor, which I know for a fact to be false. That means the subject has moved; you don't have a clue as to where she is now."

So much for the presumed decrease in his cognitive faculties. Annette bumped into the counter behind her, the back of her head meeting gently with the glass door of the incubator. Still Wesker advanced, and now the knife was pointed at her rather than the ground. Not a promising change in position. "Well," she tried to explain, licking lips that were suddenly dry, "if the subject isn't on the third or fourth floors, and she isn't on the second—"

The point of the knife touched her cheek, and Annette visibly flinched, eliciting a small but extremely self-satisfied smirk from Wesker. _Bastard_. She wanted to kick him in the nads—she was in an awfully good position for that, too—but she wasn't sure if his addled mind would even register the blow. "You don't know that," he corrected her, voice low and smooth and utterly dangerous. "You don't know any of that. You're simply trying to manipulate me into doing what _you_ want, isn't that correct?" He dug the knife in deeper, until it began to sting.

"Hey!" Birkin interjected, the muzzle of the submachine gun thrusting itself into the narrow space between Wesker and Annette. "Leave her alone, Al! Geez, what is the _matter_ with you? She has a point, doesn't she?"

Silver flashed as the knife whipped from her face and deflected the firearm's barrel away. "_Don't_ point that at me," the blond snarled, his face a sudden mask of fury. Combined with his eyes, the sight was startling enough for Birkin to just up and drop the gun, and then he simply stood there defenseless, wavering slightly from fright. "I've had enough of your bullets," he spat out, a statement that made no sense to Annette. William seemed to understand, though, for he held up his hands in frantic surrender.

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry!" he cried. "But we're not your enemies! You don't need to threaten us!"

Wesker relaxed slowly, the knife descending back to the level of his hip as he stared stonily at his friend. Annette wondered what was going through his mind, if anything at all. Then his arm swung out suddenly, unexpectedly, catching William completely off-guard.

Annette made half a lunge towards Wesker before she realized that the man had slammed only the knuckles of his fist into her husband's shoulder—the knife was pointed harmlessly away, not in any danger of eviscerating Wesker's target. She stumbled to a halt and pulled away, rather certain that Wesker would not extend the same courtesy towards her if she gave him any reason to attack.

"Oof," William grunted, falling back against a bench. His hand moved up to his injured limb, massaged the area absently as he glanced away guiltily. "Guess I deserved that," he mumbled.

"That and more," Wesker growled.

Annette had the feeling that she was missing out on something important. But as Wesker's black eyes shifted towards her again, she also felt that there were some things that she could just find out later. Much later.

"The subject. We're going to find her," he stated, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Annette shrugged out her acquiescence. It was better to mollify the maniac than continue the increasingly violent debate, after all. There was also the fact that once Wesker did find the subject, the monster would get him out of Annette's hair, one way or another. Her methods would be devastatingly permanent, but it wasn't as if Annette would grieve—she had never liked the man. William would probably be more broken up about it, but that would pass as soon as he buried himself in his research again.

Best of all, they could use the altercation as an opportunity to escape. Everyone would be happy, more or less.

Maybe it wasn't right to let a guy out of his mind go off and get himself killed. Annette mulled it over, glanced at Wesker and the combat knife he'd just been threatening her with not a minute before. But it wasn't _her_ fault that he'd drugged himself up, she decided, and she wasn't about to take a knife for his sake.

"Lead the way," she offered, sweeping her hand towards the lab's door. Wesker followed it with unnerving intensity before shifting his unreadable gaze back to her face. Annette thought he might be suspicious, or at least doubting her sincerity. His lack of expression, however, made it impossible to be sure.

For once she wished he was actually wearing his shades. His eyes were really creeping her out.

After a practical eternity of predatory staring, Wesker suddenly snapped his jaw at her a few times like some sort of psychopathic cannibal. Annette pulled away even further, drawing up rigidly against the incubator as she sought to escape his manic attention.

Wesker treated her to another one of his mirthless grins and a sharp chuckle. "I rather prefer you frightened," he sneered, and Annette flared with righteous indignation.

_He did not just—oh, that bastard. That _fuck_. I'll show _him_ frightened_.

Not until the knife was out of his hand, though. Swallowing back her anger, she narrowed her eyes and tried to keep her tongue in check.

And failed.

"Fuck you." The words slipped right out of lips greased with cold fury. She _almost_ regretted the lapse in her control, but there was some satisfaction to be had in throwing the paltry little insult right in his face. It wasn't something she did often—even less commonly when he was armed and dangerous. But if her husband wasn't going to stand up for her, someone else had to do it. Might as well be her.

He raised the blade, tapping the flat of it against the top of her head in a rather demeaning and entirely derogatory fashion. She wasn't sure of his intent, though he didn't seem angry—darkly amused, more like, but just as possibly murderous. Whatever the case, they weren't about to find out.

A raucous banging on the lab door made all three of them forget their squabble and turn back towards the room's entrance.

"I want my generator back!" a man—_Fischer, was it?_—shouted through the door.

William looked put out. "He's not giving it up easily," he muttered. "Get lost!" he shouted, directing his voice to the door.

"Screw you!" Fischer's struggles became louder and more concentrated; the door actually began to open as the man got a good hold on it.

Wesker perked up, though not in a way Annette particularly wanted to witness. The knife spun around in his palm and he sidled towards the door, malevolence bleeding off of him in waves.

"Oh god," Annette moaned, fingers rising to her temples. "He's going to _kill_ the poor idiot, William."

"Better him than us," William pointed out dryly.

"Hasn't there been enough violence for one day?" she asked, suddenly filled with an unpleasant mixture of exhaustion and despair.

"Well, we _do_ need to keep the generator," William rationalized, before giving her a helpless expression. "Besides, how could we even stop him?"

Annette picked up her rifle half-heartedly. "Well, are you familiar with the story of Old Yeller?" she asked.

"We aren't _shooting_ him!" William was appalled.

"He's lost his mind!"

"Not entirely!" As far as arguments, it wasn't a strong one, and William knew it. He opened his mouth, trying to find something else to support his position, when a bloodcurdling scream interrupted their debate.

_Too late. He's already_—

The thought broke off when Annette saw Wesker still standing by the door. The closed door.

Fischer was screaming through it.

"No! No! What—no! No! NonononononoNOOO—"

His frenzied shrieks cut off abruptly.

Annette shared a wide-eyed look with William.

_Oh no_.

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><p><strong>Only two more chapters to go, guys. Thanks for sticking with me this long.<br>**


	17. Hero Crisis

**Well, it's still Monday **_**somewhere**_** in the world—Hawaii, if nowhere else—so technically this isn't late. But really, general business and the fact that my internet decided to poop out on me (a common occurrence for those of us stuck out in the boonies) rather limited my ability to post.  
><strong>

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><p>Fischer's tortured cries brought Wesker up short; the blond rapidly revised his strategy, abandoning the door for a more advantageous post at the wall flanking it. It only took several seconds for the subject to finish up with her latest victim, and then she moved on, relentlessly, towards the lab. No doubt she was being drawn by the generator as much as Wesker had been.<p>

The edge of the door crinkled as a tentacle wormed its way through the seam; it was joined by several more, and then with hardly a grunt the door was thrown open fully—so totally, in fact, that the door itself landed back in the hall, having been completely torn from its frame.

If the subject was tiring at all from her exertions, it had yet to show.

Completely oblivious to Wesker's presence, the subject lurched into the lab and headed straight for the generator. Annette skittered to the side by reflex, rifle held only loosely in her arms; she hadn't yet reacted fully to the danger. William refused to move entirely, apparently determined to protect the generator and the incubator from the murderous monster.

_What a fool_.

Wesker didn't try to intercept the subject—with only one arm, he had to play his cards right. As far as he remembered, she had always had at least four tentacles at the ready at any given moment; at present that number had more than tripled, and jumping into that morass, hacking and slashing, was out of the question. All evidence to the contrary, she was not immortal, and he _could_ take her down. He just had to work around his apparent handicap—his dearth of limbs to her overabundance. As long as he only had the one knife, his plan of attack was going to require some ingenuity and careful timing on his part. So he stayed put.

"Move!" Annette shouted to Birkin, having realized her husband's idiotic position. She darted towards him, tried to pull him out of the way, but the subject was fast, much too fast. She swung an arm into Annette, knocking the woman into one of the lab benches. William managed to fire off a few pathetic rounds from the machine gun before she slapped him aside. Caught between the two Birkins, the subject had her pick of available victims, and she went for Annette first. She tried to stomp the young woman's head in with one massive foot, but Annette managed to jerk out of the way just in time.

She could not, however, avoid the kick that sent her rolling down the aisle between the benches. Moaning, Annette curled into a ball, her arms wrapped around her midsection. The subject contemplated her helplessness briefly before rounding on William. She caught him around the throat, lifted him easily, and tossed him towards the front of the room. He collided with a rack of steel shelving along the way; both it and him cascaded to the floor, along with a number of plastic-wrapped supplies and fragile glassware. Like Annette, he lay there unmoving, a soft groan escaping his lips.

The subject swung her head back and forth, waiting for her victims to make the next move, to defy her. Wesker, remaining completely stationary in the darkness near the door, continued to escape her notice. He stared, enthralled, at the weaving mass of appendages that clouded the air around her into a thick, roiling thundercloud. There was something more there, he could see—blacker than the surrounding shadows, each tendril was a manifestation of absolute darkness, vaguely transparent though substantiated by spade-shaped scales and terminated by a fanged, hissing mouth. Forked tongues flicked, crimson pinpricks of light flared behind each glass eye. The ropy serpents twisted among themselves, snapping and hissing and gorging on their brethren, with more sprouting continuously in the wake of their self-destructive frenzy. They were on her shoulders, draping her arms, sliding over her back; they were her hair. A modern Medusa.

Would that she only turned her victims to stone, rather than violently rend them apart into messy, bloody little chunks.

Movement in his peripherals broke his concentration, drawing his attention back to Annette; the woman had stretched out, one arm straining in vain to reach the rifle that had been knocked from her hands. The subject noticed it too, and reacted mercilessly. Annette shrieked as the subject's foot came down, smashing her forearm against the concrete floor. She cried out again and kicked out fruitlessly as the subject's ankle gyrated back and forth, grinding down on Annette's trapped limb with even more of her weight.

William, in the meanwhile, was still recovering. He shifted slowly, painfully, among glass shards, spitting out a few droplets of blood as he tried to take up his weight between his elbows and knees. If he noticed his wife's predicament, he didn't let on at all. Nor did he try to help.

Annette was on her own—and she was faring rather poorly.

The woman screamed shrilly as the subject grabbed her by the hair and wrenched her head up; the monster had yet to release Annette's arm, and the position looked highly uncomfortable.

"Ann-_Annette_," William wheezed out in anguish. Aside from trembling on the floor, however, there was little he could do.

"Mother!" the subject rasped into Annette's ear, roughly shaking her captive's head back and forth. "_MOTHER?_"

"What do you _want_ from me?" Annette wailed, tugging uselessly at the monster's ankle as tears cleared a path through the blood coating her cheeks. Her shrieks rose up an octave as the subject forced Annette's head back even further, threatening to snap her spine.

"A-Albert!" William was desperate as his fevered eyes fell on the form of his frozen friend. "_Do something!_"

Wesker treated William to a cold, calculated glare, Annette's agonized cries ringing in his ears. "Do what?" he drawled, raising his voice to be heard over the sounds of torment. "Haven't I done all I can? _You_ chose this path. To die here, in your lab. With Annette." If they had just run in the very beginning, had gotten out of his way...

William gave him a wide-eyed look as he tried to disentangle himself from the metal shelving, his eyes brightening with tears of pain or fear or both. "What the hell are you talking about?" he shouted. "I don't want _anyone_ to die! You have to save Annette! The subject is going to _kill_ her!"

"I thought I told you already," Wesker replied calmly. "Annette's _your_ wife, so she's _your_ responsibility. Frankly I don't care what happens to her."

"You miserable—ugh—_ungrateful_—ah—bastard," William snarled, twisting free of the last of the shelves. Rolling over shards of glass, he met Wesker's flat eyes with blazing anger. "You're just going to _watch_ her die?"

Two long steps and a hop over a lab bench had Wesker face to face with his fallen colleague. "_I'm_ ungrateful?" he spat out, knife arm jabbing towards his bad shoulder. "_Look_ at me! I've been this monster's punching bag while you idiots have been scurrying back and forth around the facility like headless chickens! Fight for your own goddamn lives _for once!_"

"I'm trying!" Birkin roared back. "But I'm just—I'm no good at this! I can't do it alone!"

"Well that's a shame for Annette, now isn't it?" Wesker snapped, pulling away as Birkin lunged for him.

"Give me your knife, then! You aren't using it!" Birkin made another reach for it, hand outstretched, and Wesker swung the blade around with an audible hiss.

Screeching, Birkin recoiled, blood flowing freely from his freshly opened palm. He took one look at his new wound and went down on his knees, arms wobbling uncontrollably. Wesker pounced, knife raised in preparation, until recollection struck and he remembered whom his real enemy was. Stumbling to a halt, he glared down at his crouching associate, watching the ruby rivulets seeping from between the young man's clenched fingers. "_Pathetic,_" he snarled, just as Annette's cries cut out, and his words echoed loudly in the sudden silence.

Wesker swung around just in time to see the woman's limp body going flying across the lab; the subject stood at the opposite end of the arc, her visage with its leering, ophidian crown angled directly at him. As the sole standing individual there, her murderous attention was as inevitable as it was unwanted.

The monster leaped up onto the lab bench, tensed, and sprang at him. He avoided her charge, slipping away fluidly until a tentacle grabbed him around the shin and slammed him to the floor. He rolled over onto his back just in time for the subject to land on his chest, crushing him with her considerable weight. His breath exploded from his lungs in a massive gasp; stars and stripes dashed haphazardly across his vision in patterns completely unrelated to the drugs playing havoc in his brain. Her hand slapped down over his mouth and chin; she jerked his head back, leaving his neck woefully exposed. Pulling back her lips, she bared her blunt teeth in a bestial grin.

The snakes around her face shuddered with anticipation; hazy venom drifted from their gaping mouths as Wesker writhed against the monster's hold.

_This can't be happening. A dream, another dream,_ he decided desperately.

Dream or no, he reacted when her face shot towards the soft skin of his throat. His arm came up in an instant, bringing the knife point level with her eye; her own momentum did the rest. The blade buried itself deep in her eye socket, coming to a jarring halt when it struck the back of the bony orbit.

The subject froze; a thick strand of drool escaped her gaping mouth and landed across Wesker's collarbone with a wet splat. Her entire body quivered, sending vibrations up and down Wesker's arm. And then she threw her head back, black blood spurting from her face in an inky arch as she howled.

Her hands slammed down on his shoulders—both of them—and he felt a distant pang of discomfort snag at the corners of his consciousness. Growling savagely, the subject threw her face in his, and Wesker got an excellent look into the mess of her ruined eye.

A fresh tentacle unexpectedly burst out of the bloody crater, snapping around his neck and winding itself into mercilessly tight coils. Taken by surprise, Wesker found himself completely unable to draw breath, his chest burning and his vision darkening as both air and blood supply were abruptly interrupted. Releasing his last mouthful of breath in a frustrated growl, he swung out the knife in a last-ditch effort to save himself.

The blade passed through the snapping serpents without resistance, reducing them to mere shadows and fluttering strands of limp, greasy hair; it was much more effective against the subject's choke hold—the indestructibility of the monster's hide did not extend to the tentacles. The knife lodged into the muscular rope and, with more pressure, sliced right through it.

With a shriek of pain, the subject ripped Wesker off the floor and threw him to the side, where he nearly collided with Birkin's struggling body. He caught himself with his elbow, but his momentum carried him further, into a jerky roll. Deep, searing pain lanced up the side of his body, penetrating past the drug-induced barrier of obliviousness. Jarred into momentary sobriety, Wesker stared down at the glass pieces littering the floor.

They had embedded themselves into his exposed flesh, and his arm was particularly afflicted. The shards were small, though, and hadn't penetrated deeply—easy enough to dig out, if he had the time. As it were, however, he had other, more pressing concerns to entertain at the moment.

Thus dismissing the wounds as superficial, he tried to roll onto his back, only to find his entire side stiff and uncooperative.

_Damn it—damn everything to hell. _

Grunting, he forced himself to turn, ignoring the screaming pain the motion elicited, and tried to pick up his knife. His fingers encountered only the glass-strewn concrete, however; his knife had slid out of reach. Inwardly cursing his luck, he tried to sit up—another impossibility—and with a stilted sigh of exasperation pressed his hand to his side, seeking the troublesome shrapnel. Clearly it was going to have to go after all—

His fingertips brushed up against the hilt of his knife instead. Wesker glanced down at his body, confused by the discovery.

_Why_—

He saw the knife hilt protruding from the right side of his body at an awkward angle; the blade itself had completely vanished into his upper abdomen, right beneath his ribs. He stared, and then he stared some more, not quite able to comprehend why his knife was there instead of in his hand.

He looked up and found Birkin gawking at him, utterly horrified. Wesker glanced back down at the knife, watching as his hand, quite of its own accord, wrapped itself around the hilt and tugged the blade partially free. A wave of dizziness hit him, and he couldn't continue.

Unable to do much else, he continued to stare stupidly at the visible portion of the weapon. Black and crimson mixed freely on the exposed portion of the knife as his blood and the subject's warred for dominance over the slick surface; he could easily imagine the same battle occurring in his own body at that very moment.

Wesker licked his lips, swallowed thickly. "Her blood isn't infectious," he told Birkin, but the man continued to give him a look of pure, unadulterated horror. "Her blood _isn't infectious_," Wesker repeated, more insistent, a note of panic creeping into his voice.

There was a warning growl directly behind him, then something massive smacked him upside the face. The force of the blow sent him into the nearest lab bench; the collision wrenched his arm and the rest of the blade jerked free in a gush of hot blood. The flash of pain that accompanied the removal blazed brightly for a second before dimming into a fuzzy sense of discomfort; the wonder drug was still doing its thing.

Wesker looked up into the face of the subject, teeth chattering as he fought to hold the knife steady in his shaking, blood-slicked hand. The monster looked down on him with disinterest before rounding on William, who shrieked and kicked up his feet in an effort to escape her attentions. Wesker tried to move, but suddenly all his energy was gone, spilling out of his body in the warm waters of the river coursing down his side.

His head bobbed downwards, chin scraping against his chest, and consciousness rapidly fled.

_Pop! Pop! Pop!_

The sharp reports of a nearby firearm disrupted his hard-won rest. A finger twitched, and returning awareness crept up on Wesker slowly, with great reluctance.

_Pop!_

Wesker's eyes opened after a brief struggle and were immediately greeted by the familiar red glow of the emergency lights. He was mildly disappointed; he was still waiting for the nightmare to end. Picking his head up off the concrete, he looked up in time to see Birkin get bashed into the floor by a wild sweep of the subject's arm. The rifle he'd apparently managed to pick up went flying out of his hands, clattering to the ground at a highly inconvenient distance from the cornered researcher, leaving him defenseless.

The subject surged forward, slashing out with her hand and ripping the young man open with a splash of blood. Birkin staggered and dropped to his knees, hands numbly moving to his abdomen, to the viscera exposed. He crumpled. Wesker shot up—or tried to; his body was noncompliant. He watched helplessly as the subject advanced further on the Birkins, William's blood dripping from her fingers, and there was nothing he could do, nothing at all. His head dropped back to the ground with a jarring clunk, and he felt a wave of exhaustion sweep sickly through his ravaged body.

"Are you just going to sit there?"

Wesker blinked, frowning, eyes shifting to the speaker. Birkin leaned over the lab bench, looking down at him in disapproval. There was blood on his lab coat.

Wesker stared at him for a solid eternity. "I don't think this is real," he managed to voice out hoarsely, at long last.

Birkin cocked an eyebrow. "Well, that would be convenient, now wouldn't it?" He nodded down at Wesker's knife hand, which was fairly saturated in blood. "_That_ looks awfully real though, wouldn't you say? I bet it feels pretty darn real, too. You might want to do something about it, you know, while you still can."

"I can't," Wesker started to protest, trailing off as he scrutinized the red pooling onto the concrete at his side. Birkin had a point. But what could he do? For a brief, ludicrous second he toyed with the idea of sticking the knife back in to plug the wound, but dismissed it with the obvious rationalization that he would, in all likelihood, merely double his knife-wounds with that method.

"Fair enough," Birkin muttered blithely, resting his chin casually in the cup of his hand. "Still, if you could take care of the subject, that'd be great. I mean, I'd _really_ appreciate it."

"_How?_" Wesker asked, fighting to keep his eyes open. He was just so _sleepy._

"Staying awake would be the first step," Birkin retorted sharply, kneeling next to Wesker. He prodded the downed blond in his lacerated side, earning himself an annoyed grunt of acknowledgement.

"That drug of yours works rather well," Wesker commented. "I didn't even feel that."

"No, I don't suppose you did," Birkin replied easily. "All the more reason for you to get up and stop the subject from killing my wife." Somewhere far away someone was screaming; Wesker had to concentrate to hear Birkin's words.

"Why should I?" Wesker muttered, letting his eyelids slide down and shutter him in comforting darkness. "I don't care about her."

"While I do realize that you hold nothing but animosity for her in your heart, I do actually like her a great deal. And since you're my friend—at least, I prefer to think you are—I would hope you could just oblige me in this one favor."

"And _why _can't _you_ do it?" Wesker growled, cracking open an eye to glare at Birkin's blood-smeared shoes.

The younger man gave him a toothy smile filled with stark honesty. "Well, because I'm blindingly incompetent at this sort of thing."

"That's certainly proven itself to be true today," Wesker grumbled. "Competency aside, however, there's nothing I can do. The knife didn't even make it past her eye socket—her skeleton is as unbreakable as her flesh."

"Forget the knife. There's always the curare." Birkin tilted his head towards a little chunk of plastic sitting innocuously in the middle of the aisle. "If not to save Annette, at least do it for yourself."

Wesker stared at the small device in disbelief. Surely, it _couldn't_ be the same one…how had it ended up there? He glanced back to William, but the man had gone, had vanished back into the ether as quickly as he'd come. Fighting back his lethargy, he lifted his head and looked back to where the subject had last cornered her prey—the scene was largely unchanged, her hulking form still menaced the crumpled bodies of the Birkins. But the red sheen on her hands wasn't fresh blood; merely light reflecting off the old, and William was stunned but intact, uneviscerated, his organs all presumably where they should be.

Wesker shook his head, tried to clear his brain of the last of the creeping shadows and clinging fog of fatigue. Birkin might not be eviscerated, but if he didn't do something soon he just might very well end up that way. He had to move.

He began to crawl forward slowly, almost entirely oblivious to the penetrating wound to his chest and the glass splinters embedded in his good arm. His left arm flopped alongside him, unfelt; it had fallen loose of his shirt at some point without him noticing. He continued to ignore it, persisting onward until he simply couldn't move anymore. He watched as Birkin struggled back onto his feet, only to get slapped into the wall. The young man fell in a quivering heap next to his unmoving wife; the subject continued to advance, and the man made a pathetic attempt to protect Annette by throwing himself over her body.

A tentacle lashed out, catching him across the face and putting him down for the count. The subject bent down and grabbed Birkin by the leg, dragging him free of his wife. Then she hunkered down over him, hunger glimmering in her hateful eye, and Wesker recalled the fate of the body in the elevator.

Groaning, he forced himself forward another foot. Real or not, he didn't want to witness it. Didn't want to watch her feast on his friend.

Of course, he knew by then that they were all going to die. It was an idea that had been kicking around in the back of his mind for a while—ever since he'd first laid eyes on the subject, really—but it hadn't really hit him until then.

This was it. It was over, all over. The end. Done. _Finito._

And all for _nothing._ The notion rankled him.

Wesker's hand reached out, closed over plastic.

His head drooped, sweat-slicked forehead touching concrete briefly. He was very cold, could not feel his legs. Could still move them, though. Maybe. Somehow he managed to keep sliding over the floor; the blood pooling around his body made for a decent lubricant.

Or maybe it was the floor that was moving. He couldn't even tell anymore. Either way, despite all his efforts, the subject wasn't getting any closer, was still hunched over William, a thousand miles away. Utterly unreachable by his current standards, though he was fairly certain that if he wanted to rendezvous with the subject, he wasn't necessarily the one who had to handle the locomotive aspects of the encounter.

Of course, taking action now would almost certainly guarantee that his death would be the first, unless Annette had already claimed that honor. On the one hand, there was no glory to be had in that distinction. On the other, his entire purpose in fetching William in the first place—and then traversing the death trap the lab had become in search of the man's useless wife—had been to keep the idiot alive so that Spencer's moronic plans would not be compromised.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid. Dying for the sake of some obscure project that might never be realized. As if we even need a Tyrant—this subject serves that purpose well enough, now doesn't she?_

Letting William die first negated everything he'd set out to do in the first place, especially considering the fact that the man probably never even would have left his lab had Wesker not convinced him to do so. Not that Wesker felt much responsibility for that—the subject was eventually going to make her rounds through the place, that much had always been inevitable. But there was still a sense of…_dissatisfaction_ with how things had turned out, possibly even guilt, though the concept of that particular emotion was entirely foreign to Wesker.

Then again, at the end of the day, death was death, and no one was going to know, let alone _care,_ about who died when. Maybe it was better to go down first and avoid spending those last tortuous minutes as an unwilling audience privy to the subject's uncanny predilections for human flesh. It wasn't as if a few extra minutes were going to bring him any additional enjoyment out of his rapidly diminishing life, after all.

_What the hell. Better to go down fighting._

He unclenched his teeth; wet his lips with a sandpaper tongue. "Hey," he said, hardly more than a whisper in the silent room and completely drowned out by the monster's frenzied panting. Pushing himself up onto his elbow, he gulped down a deeper breath, chest expanding only with great difficulty, and tried again.

"HEY!"

His side split with agony, but he forgot about it as soon as the subject's head snapped up, bloody face zeroing in on his location. There were no more twisting shadows, no wispy, crawling snakes. Just a monster. Her mouth jerked open in a soundless scream of wrath; she darted towards him, hands and tentacles at the ready.

Wesker pitched over onto his back, hand flying to his mouth. His teeth clamped down on plastic, and with a jerk of his hand uncapped the syringe. The subject was there, her foot slamming down onto his stomach. Wesker convulsed, nearly swallowing the cap caught between his teeth. He noted with dismay that her eye socket had healed over, impenetrable flesh guarding her bloodstream from the poison held between his fingers. How the hell was he supposed to—

Her head descended, mouth wide open and directed towards his face, and he didn't have time to mull over the problem any longer. He brought his arm up defensively, slamming his balled fist into her cavernous maw. Unperturbed, the subject reacted by slamming her trap shut. Her teeth sank deep into his wrist, slicing right through his flesh like razors, despite their apparent bluntness. She shook her head back and forth like a rabid dog, the froth of her saliva growing bloody as she stripped the skin from his arm.

It stung pretty badly; with the help of the drug, he pushed the pain to the back of his mind and focused on his hand. He still had hold of the syringe, and with a downward twitch of his captured wrist—accompanied by another burst of pain—he sank the needle into the thick meat of her tongue.

Her head jerked back, and with her teeth still locked in Wesker's arm, he had little choice but to follow. Keeping his grip on the syringe steady, he found the plunger of the device with his thumb and depressed it all the way down.

The subject grunted once before twisting her head violently from side to side; this time Wesker could not keep himself from shouting in anguish. Blood ran down his arm and spattered the floor, joining the alarmingly large puddle already lying there. Her teeth finally retracted from his limb and he collapsed into an undignified heap on the concrete. From there he watched as she let her tongue loll out and plucked the syringe from it with ease, casually tossing it aside. There was no indication that it was having any effect at all.

Wesker let out a shuddering breath and closed his eyes.

_Was it the wrong syringe?_ He'd prefer to think that they didn't just have random syringes lying around the lab, but then again, how could the curare have made it up there in the first place? He should've known. Given his current steak of luck, he'd probably just shot her full of saline.

He'd made a mistake.

_Oh well. First time for everything_.

The floor vibrated beneath his cheek as the subject took a thunderous step forward. Then she groaned, and Wesker frowned, cracking open an eye.

The subject attempted another step in his direction, weaving drunkenly from side to side. Her mouth hung open slack, tongue protruding limply like a fat, dead snake. She groaned again, sounding sick, and tumbled down to a knee. Her other leg followed suit and she pitched forward, landing flat on her chest when her arms failed to catch her. Her head slammed down, hardly a foot from his own, and her one good eye was filled with a glazed look of fear.

The subject exhaled mightily, expelling a lungful of rotten air directly into Wesker's face. He waited for several seconds—minutes—hours, heart pounding anxiously in his chest.

She did not inhale.

Wesker watched as her eye clouded over, a chill creeping through his throbbing body. He was exhausted, and utterly so; he could not move a bone in his body. He had no idea if William or Annette was still alive, could not summon the energy to try and get a glimpse of them over the subject's misshapen frame.

Well, he'd done all he could. Releasing his breath in a sigh, Wesker gave in and let his eyes fall shut. Black oblivion rushed in to swiftly carry his consciousness far, far away from the dreadful place.

* * *

><p><strong>Oh god now I actually have to write the last chapter, don't I? And I was putting it off <em>so well,<em> too. Hopefully it'll be done by next week, but I'm really not making any promises.  
><strong>


	18. Rambleations

**I'm sorry that it took ridiculously long to get this chapter out, but this story has always been just so blindingly pointless that there wasn't much resolution required. And in the absence of that, I had very little left for these characters to do, save talk. Which they ended up doing a lot of, since I didn't bother to cut out the irrelevant bits (because that would be most of the chapter). Thus...**

* * *

><p>October 25th, 1987<p>

With one arm in a sling and the other bandaged, pulling on his shirt proved to be a rather challenging task indeed. Wesker fought impatiently with the offending garment for a while before finally just freeing his limb from the sling and jamming it down the arm of the shirt.

William, reclining lazily in the seat opposite the hospital bed, watched his struggles with poorly disguised mirth. There was a bandage wrapped around the palm of his right hand, but otherwise he appeared unscathed.

"You find this amusing?" Wesker growled, hands moving to button up the black fabric. The bandage over the right half of his abdomen disappeared from view; he could still feel it though, and knew he was going to remove it as soon as he didn't have nurses checking in on him _every five goddamn minutes_.

"Of course not," William replied, hiding a smirk behind his left hand. There was a manila folder contained within his other hand; Wesker was just waiting for him to bring it up, whatever it was. "Just ironic," the young man explained. "Here's the great Albert Wesker, slayer of test subjects, foiled by a mere piece of clothing."

"I have it under control," Wesker replied curtly, giving up at the second-to-last button. The subject's teeth had done more damage to the muscles and tendons of his arm than he liked to admit; they were still weak from a month of disuse and incomplete repair. "And I did not _slay_ anything. There's no way the subject's truly dead."

"You're right," William replied absently, glancing out the window at the gray, drizzly sky. "She reanimated about five hours after they recovered her body. No brain activity, though," he added, as an afterthought. "She's back to the way she was."

"I would hope that didn't stop them from restraining her in some way," Wesker sighed, not really expecting any sort of competence from the company.

"She's tied down," Birkin confirmed. "At least, that's what they told me; I haven't seen her. I don't _want_ to see her. Not yet."

"Don't be a coward," Wesker responded, though only distractedly. His eyes fell inadvertently on the mysterious file again, but Birkin clearly wasn't ready to reveal whatever it was just yet. He directed his attention down to his untied shoes and frowned, displeased by the trial that awaited him there. Had the subject only bitten his non-dominant arm...but then his right would be in the sling; there was no way around it. "How did we..." he began, reflecting back to their sudden and inexplicable incarceration in the hospital.

"Get out of the lab?" Birkin finished for him. Wesker nodded for him to continue. Birkin shrugged. "I wasn't any more conscious than you," he said. "But the subject actually missed most of the first floor's labs. I guess the hullabaloo in my lab drew some of our colleagues out of hiding...or rather, that probably happened once things quieted down. Either way, someone found us and raised the alarm. I didn't really ask about it; I was a lot more interested in how the subject got out in the first place. And how you managed to take her down by yourself," he added, shooting Wesker a pointed look filled with blatant curiosity.

Wesker ignored it entirely. "There was a spy," he stated simply, remembering the limp body splayed at the foot of the subject's bed.

Birkin appeared surprised, though not because this was news to him. "How did you know?"

"I found him," Wesker retorted tonelessly.

"Why were you even in that room—" William started to say, before adopting a discerning expression. "Ah. This was _after_ the blotting paper, wasn't it?"

Wesker frowned. "Before," he stated. There was enough clarity surrounding his memory of that event to back up his assertion, but it was plain from the look in Birkin's eye that the younger man didn't believe him. "It's not important either way. Who was he?"

"Yuri—"

"I don't want the name on the ID card," Wesker interrupted with an impatient growl. "Whom was he working for?"

"Not us—"

"_Obviously_."

Annoyed at the interruption, Birkin gave an exaggerated roll of his shoulders, directing his palms skyward. "Look, I don't really know. I don't even know if Spencer knows. The old bat's been muttering about some sort of organization but he hasn't exactly dropped any names, so your guess is as good as mine."

"You've spoken to Spencer," Wesker observed to himself, neutrally mulling over the ramifications of such an uncommon event. "What motive does he suspect?"

Birkin shrugged again and Wesker inwardly seethed. The young scientist had no investigative drive outside of the lab, and that fact was never more infuriating than it was now. "Who knows? Either theft or sabotage seems the most likely candidate."

Wesker sighed, exasperated, but accepted the information as the best he could get at the moment. He quickly backtracked to a different point of interest Birkin had let slip earlier. "Did you speak to Spencer here?" he asked, inclining his head slightly to the side, towards the hall past the door and the Umbrella-run hospital surrounding it. He, and presumably the Birkins, had been held there in quarantine ever since they'd initially been scraped off the floor of the lab. He didn't know any other details about their imprisonment, save for the fact that it had been over a month and no one would tell him what was happening. The nurses in their airtight space suits had always infuriated him, bustling through his room to switch out IVs and replace bandages and never once giving him a single word of explanation.

Birkin made a face. "Of course not. You know how he is. The man never leaves his castle if he can help it." The young man adopted a pose of exaggerated repose, sliding down further in the rigid chair until his legs stuck out straight in front of him, the inadequately padded armrests digging into his armpits. "He made a brief stop in Arklay, though, just to survey the damage. Or something to that effect. Wasn't there for more than fifteen minutes, so I can't imagine he really got the whole picture. I got maybe a minute or two of his attention before he returned to the cave."

"You've been out?" Wesker was thunderstruck by the possibility. If Birkin had already been chatting with Spencer in the halls of Arklay, he'd clearly gotten off with a lighter sentence than what Wesker had suffered through, despite the similarity of their exposures. That fact pissed him off.

"Not for long," William placated, sensing Wesker's turn in mood. "Less than a week—a few days, that's all. They only held me and Annette for thirty days since we weren't bitten and didn't, you know, stab ourselves through the livers with contaminated blades or anything like that."

"You ratted me out," Wesker sneered, unsurprised yet still plenty annoyed.

"The evidence was there. They drew their own conclusions," William responded, a bit too hastily to be truthful. Wesker's face set into a hard frown, and William fidgeted in his seat. "Well, what if you'd contracted something?" he confessed at last, his endurance giving out within several minutes. "Her blood is full of god-only-knows what after everything we've exposed her to."

"Her blood isn't infectious," Wesker growled. He held up his free arm. "Do you see any tentacles? Any deformities? Have you noticed a decrease in my mental faculties?"

William shrugged, then leaned forward, waving the folder up and down. His eyes sparkled; he'd been waiting for this moment. "That doesn't mean there wasn't anything there."

Wesker narrowed his eyes and snatched the file from William's fingers. He flicked open the cover, revealing sheaf after sheaf of charts and tables, several dark, blotchy images thrown in every few pages. Further down he ran across what were clearly medical records—_his_ records, as further scrutiny revealed. Judging by the date, the data he held had all been compiled within the past few days. "What is this?" he snarled, feeling a flare of indignation at so thorough an invasion of his privacy.

Birkin gave him an unreadable look through hooded eyes. "What do you think? Spencer wasn't just going to ignore your exposure, you know." He picked at his fingernails, making a show of inspecting them as he avoided Wesker's withering glare. "Hey, we got the same treatment. Well, nearly."

Wesker held up the file, conspicuously fat for something that only spanned a time period of a few days' worth of tests. "You brought this here today to tell me something, I gather," he suggested, voice dangerously low. "What is it?"

Birkin gesticulated towards the folder. "It's all in there."

"If you think I am going to sit here and _read_ this entire thing..." He leafed through the pages again, nothing of interest jumping out at him. "Just summarize it," he ordered, looking back up to Birkin fiercely, daring his defiance.

Birkin avoided his harsh gaze, his eyes riveted on his palm as he picked at the bandage taped over it. "They ran a few antibody tests on your blood, looking for evidence of T. The results are in there. Page eleven. Or thirteen."

Wesker flicked through to the specified page, taking a moment to examine the images it presented. He was unimpressed. "Weak fluorescence," he noted. "Hardly anything to get worked up over."

"But that's more fluorescence than the negative control," William pointed out, peeling back the bandage and grimacing at whatever lay beneath. "That's reactivity. Weak, yes, but reactivity nonetheless."

Wesker dismissed the notion outright. "A fluke," he commented. "Background interference. You know T's virulence; even the minutest exposure will progress to infection. If _any_ of the virus entered my bloodstream I'd be dead by now." He frowned, suddenly thoughtful. "Unless someone developed a cure in the past few weeks," he added dryly.

Birkin chuckled at the absurdity. "Not hardly. Actually, if you go further a few pages you'll see that the subject's blood throws up the same reaction to the T-antibodies that yours does—weak fluorescence. Which makes sense. The virus was never able to get a foothold in her system."

"Then there shouldn't be any fluorescence at all," Wesker growled, pages curling between his fingers. Residual painkillers were making it hard to think, his brain was still fuzzy—he was in no state to be debating results, a fact Birkin should have been well aware of. "Just get to the point."

"It's cross reactivity," Birkin stated, nodding towards the folder without raising his eyes. "Something similar enough to T to bind with the antibodies. Not very well, obviously, but it still points to a closely related virus."

"Which I'm infected with," Wesker surmised.

"Were exposed to," Birkin corrected. "If you look at the latest data you'll see there's no fluorescence at all. Whatever it is went through your system without much of an impact. It might be benign—"

"Anything structurally similar enough to T to react with its antibodies is hardly going to be harmless," Wesker contested.

"Exactly," Birkin agreed, nodding sagely. He held up his palm, letting the overhead lights cast their bleach-blue glow over the angry red line that crossed it. The wound had probably once been held shut by any number of stitches, but it was now well into the latter stages of healing. "In all likelihood it's not as virulent as T and the exposure you had was insufficient to kick off a full-blown infection. Or you've got some sort of natural resistance to it." Birkin paused, letting his words sink in as he patted the bandage back down over his hand. "Either way, Spencer's taken some interest in this development."

"Am I supposed to be flattered?"

"It's more of a heads-up," Birkin replied, scratching idly at his hair. He still wouldn't meet Wesker's hard gaze. "You know what can happen when you draw Spencer's attention."

"This is hardly worth noting," Wesker commented, giving the page one last, dismissive glance before shutting the file and tossing it onto the foot of the bed. "The virus is gone. Unless he plans on reintroducing it to my system I hardly think there's much he can get from it now."

Birkin rubbed at the back of his neck anxiously. "Well, like I said, I just wanted to give you a heads-up...I mean, I wouldn't exactly put it past him..." his eyes flicked briefly but meaningfully towards the IV hanging by Wesker's bedside.

With a start, Wesker's eyes flew to the suspended bag of fluid, shriveled and flat after being emptied of its contents. He snatched the bag from its hook and pulled it down, examining the label for some sort of telling evidence of tampering. But all he could make out were a few poorly scrawled letters and numbers, their meanings indiscernible. He dropped the bag, his mouth pulling down at the corners. It was ridiculous to think Spencer would do anything of the sort—Wesker was more valuable to him alive than he was dead or mutated. Exhaling slowly through his nose, he smoothed back his hair with his free hand, annoyed that he'd succumbed to Birkin's level of paranoia for even just a second.

"Don't be stupid," he said finally. "We aren't as replaceable as the others. If he wants more test subjects, those are the ones he'll select first."

"Maybe," William responded, noncommittal. "But not everyone can brush up to a cousin of T and walk away unmarred."

"Perhaps this _cousin_ is a useless throwback, then," Wesker retorted. "Compared to an agent that can't even establish an infection in an exposed host, T's a much more successful virus. Spencer has no reason to pay this any mind."

Birkin appeared thoughtful. "But T hasn't really been a success, has it? We've yet to actually produce a working tyrant, which was the point all along. You know, the test subject really is a lot like what we'd want from such a thing. She's strong, indestructible, and even has some higher brain functions—"

"The thought has crossed my mind," Wesker interrupted blandly. "But she's utterly uncontrollable. If we actually had a reliable way to use her, to guide her actions...things might be different."

"Hmmm," Birkin responded absently, mind obviously elsewhere. "Well, maybe your resistance to this weird T analog makes Spencer think you'd potentially be a good host—"

"I am not going to be anyone's guinea pig," Wesker snarled with so much vehemence that Birkin actually looked taken aback.

William held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Yeah, okay, well, I wasn't suggesting that you _become_ one," he said hastily. "I was just thinking out loud."

"Keep your idiotic thoughts to yourself," Wesker grumbled as he slowly clambered back to his feet, steadying himself with a hand on the bed's rail. He grunted inadvertently, a reaction to the sudden stitch in his side; that was going to take some getting used to.

"Vicodin?" Birkin suggested, holding up the container of capsules like a peace offering.

Wesker had him toss it over, but he was unenthusiastic as he shook a few pills out. "I would prefer something stronger," he muttered.

"I burned the blotting paper," William blurted, eliciting a raised brow from Wesker. "Look, it made you pretty loopy," he rapidly explained. "And _mean_. You were really kind of…well, kind of an asshole, you know. No offense."

Wesker did not actually know, not really. His memories after the blotting paper—and even those preceding it—were few and far between, and the ones he could bring to the surface had a shallow, blurred quality to them that made them feel more like parts of an increasingly bad dream than actual events. The knife he remembered vividly, of course, particularly when it was embedded in his side, but the rest was up for debate. The profusion snakes had almost certainly been complete fabrications of his mind, as had been Birkin's death, if present events were any indication. The rest, though...the elevator, the zombies,_ everything_...it didn't seem like any of it could have happened, but somehow he'd gotten thrashed quite a bit. And he'd stopped the subject, one way or another. So part of it, at least, must be true.

"I was thinking more along the lines of _morphine_," he said finally, swallowing the pills, "not your ridiculous concoctions. I have no need for hallucinations."

William perked up, curiosity piqued. "Hallu—did you really? What did you _see?_" he asked eagerly.

Wesker dismissed the useless question with a quick shake of his head.

Birkin pouted. "Well, fine. But maybe you'll explain how you managed to bring the subject down? The last I saw you put a knife through her eye, but she was still pretty energetic after that. According to the retrieval team, she didn't have any other wounds on her body."

"Yes, do tell us. Inquiring minds wish to know," a most unwelcome—and incredibly sarcastic—voice broke in.

Wesker turned, spied Annette standing in the doorway. Her forehead sported a bandage over the nasty gash she'd acquired, but like her husband she appeared spotless otherwise. How fortunate they were, to have come out of the situation so cleanly.

Wesker frowned. He was not pleased to see her, nor was he happy about the interruption. "That a scar under there?" he inquired nastily, tapping his own forehead with his index finger.

"Nothing a little makeup won't cover," she responded snidely. "It's good to see you're back to normal."

"I can't say the same," Wesker replied thinly. "Is there a particular reason you've decided to grace us with your presence?"

She shot him a wide-eyed look, brows rising and crinkling the paper slapped across her forehead. "You think _William_ drove here?"

Wesker turned to consider his friend, still sprawled in the chair and completely unbothered by Annette's implication. He would be the first to admit that he was not, in any way, to be trusted behind the wheel of any moving vehicle.

"Anyways," Annette continued, "you boys were taking forever so I had to make sure you two weren't getting savaged by some other escaped creature." She shrugged. "It's a valid concern, all things considered." Pulling back her sleeve, she made a show of checking the time. "And it's not that I really want to cut your reunion short, or anything, but I was supposed to pick up Sherry...well, an hour ago, actually. So if we could take this to the car, that'd be _great_."

"I can find my own way home," Wesker told her stiffly.

"You plan on walking? You do realize that your car is still sitting up at Arklay, right?"

_For the entire month?_ Wesker frowned even deeper, easily envisioning the environmental assault the vehicle must have weathered, exposed to the elements as it was in the open-air lot.

"Yes, they didn't tow it," William added, falsely touched. "Truly, they are magnanimous employers of the highest order."

"But you have _your_ car," Wesker inferred.

"They flew us up there in one of the birds," William replied. "Spencer wanted us to…explain…some things. And we all know how long it takes to get up that access road. So…" he shrugged, a difficult maneuver when his shoulders were already up to his ears. "We got the gold star treatment."

Annette smirked, glancing quickly down the hall to make sure no nurses were helicoptering nearby. "Oh yes, _gold star_. That is exactly how I would describe the interior of that military chopper. Umbrella is a paragon of corporate excellence," she added in a sarcastic drawl. "They set the standard for employee care."

Wesker was hard pressed to commiserate with them, given that they'd still been out in the world while he'd been interred in his hermetically sealed cell.

"Speaking of employees," Birkin said, glancing to Wesker, "we've got a whole slew of fresh meat." Then he made a face, his choice of words summoning back images of past events. "Well, I mean that metaphorically. Not in the sense that we...the old ones...would be...eaten...or—"

"I knew what you meant," Wesker deadpanned. He tried to think of how many positions had opened up in the company after the subject's little run through the building. The numbers didn't really matter, though—no matter the exact amount, it all added up to a lot of face-memorizing, name-learning, and, of course, the laborious task of ferreting out each and every new employee's exploitable vulnerabilities. Just a lot of _work_, in other words.

"Right. The facilities, on the other hand, are still under maintenance," Birkin continued. "Your lab, in particular...actually, I think the whole fourth floor is currently condemned." He looked to Annette for confirmation, which he received in the form of a small nod. "My floor's fine, though. Shelving issues and broken equipment aside."

"Of course it is."

"So the top floors will be back in business, soon. That should give us enough to do while they work on getting your lab presentable again. Plus I managed to save my cultures," he added proudly, a smile full of self-satisfaction spreading across his face. "That's one major setback avoided."

Wesker stared at him, unmoved.

No, not unmoved. His state could be more aptly described as a small vessel being rapidly filled with the dark, sloshing froth of angry disbelief. "You did _what?_"

Birkin abruptly deflated, caught off-guard by the rancor in Wesker's voice. "I...my cultures," he repeated nervously. "The neural ones in my lab...remember?" He asked, voice trailing off weakly as Wesker's expression grew progressively more thunderous.

"Are you honestly telling me that you elected to remain in the facility while the subject was running rampant for the sake of your _cultures?_" Wesker snapped, mood verging on apoplectic. "If you had merely _left_ immediately, the subject never would have—" he broke off suddenly, too angry to even complete the thought.

Birkin racked his brain quickly for an excuse and fell onto his old standby. "They were going to die!" he protested.

"_You_ very nearly did! We all could have _died_," Wesker ground out. "You still would have had all your data. You could have replaced the wretched things. Much easier to do that than return from the dead," he muttered darkly.

"You agreed with me at the time," Birkin murmured, pushing out his lower lip and looking away, a chastened child. "You even _wanted_ to go after the subject. So really—"

"I wasn't in my right _mind_," Wesker pointed out.

"I _knew_ you would've agreed with me," Annette sighed. Wesker shot her a harsh glance.

"If you knew better, you should have kept him on the right path," he said. She bristled.

"You _know_ how he is. I'd have had better luck talking down the subject."

"It doesn't matter now, does it?" Birkin cried, exasperated. "We're all _here_, alive. Everything's _fine_."

"Everything is _not_ fine," Wesker argued. "I'm missing a chunk of my _liver_, thanks to you."

"It'll grow back," Birkin retorted, eyes rolling. "It's not as if I stabbed you myself."

"No, but you _did_ shoot me."

That had him stumped. Birkin simply sat rooted in place, mouth working soundlessly as he tried to formulate some other trite excuse to brush off the entire godforsaken experience, and Wesker began to seriously contemplate strangling him with the IV lines hanging within arm's reach.

Annette broke the silence. "_What_," she stated in pure disbelief, not even as a question. She glanced between Wesker and Birkin in consternation. "You _shot_ him?"

"How else did you think I acquired a _bullet_ wound?" Wesker snapped, gesturing to his restrained arm.

Annette whirled on William. "You couldn't aim just a little more medially?"

Birkin gaped at her.

Before he could come up with an appropriate response, Annette gave an exaggerated sigh and threw her hands in the air. "Forget it! While I think we can all agree when I say we'd all just _love_ to argue these points to death, I would actually like to leave soon, if it's all the same to you. Before Sherry thinks we're going to disappear for _another_ month."

"She's barely more than a year old," Wesker pointed out flatly. "She's hardly going to notice."

Annette stared at him for a full minute before bringing a hand up to her chest, resting it lightly above her heart. "I'm actually a little touched that you remember her age," she commented softly, before her expression hardened. "But you're still an ass."

Relieved at the change of subject, Birkin was quick to jump in again before Wesker could remember what they'd been talking about. "You still haven't mentioned how you managed to bring down the subject," he interjected eagerly.

Annette made a sound of extreme frustration. "We can talk about that in the _car_, William. Unless you actually want to stay here longer, Wesker?"

The blond almost responded in the affirmative, simply out of spite, but he'd already been trapped in the sterile room long enough. He had absolutely no desire to prolong the experience. Leaning down and snatching the file back up—he was hardly going to leave it lying around for anyone else to see, after all—he shot Annette a withering look. "I suppose you have a point," he grudgingly admitted.

Annette was positively gleeful as she led them back out through the halls to the hospital's entrance, provoking a narrow-eyed glare from Wesker towards the back of her head throughout the entire journey. William followed along in a slouch, trailing a step behind Wesker. He was still clearly discontented about Wesker's response to the preservation of his cultures. It was only when they stood in the parking lot, waiting as Annette unlocked the white BMW—still shiny and new, its unfortunate predecessor having been wrapped around a streetlight by William only a few months prior—that he spoke up again.

"So, the subject? I know she didn't just keel over of her own accord. Not after all of that...she _couldn't_ have. You must have done _something_," he insisted.

Wesker didn't immediately answer, his attention having been stolen by the pale vehicle parked so unobtrusively before him. There was something about it that triggered hazy images—a stark and silent night, an empty, abandoned lot, the subject, black and bloody, mouth snapping, improbable fangs seeking his face...

A growl rent the air, low and menacing. Wesker's head snapped up, heart rate doubling, and his eyes scanned the lot by reflex, seeking out that awful hulking shape. But all they landed on was Birkin, his features twisted into a perplexed look.

"You alright?"

The BMW's engine throbbed, and Wesker realized the snarl he'd detected was nothing more than the car's ignition. He relaxed, marginally, and pulled open the car door, only to stop and draw back when he noticed the child seat strapped in place on the opposite side of the backseat. "No," he stated contentiously.

Annette, already seated behind the wheel, twisted around to give him an exasperated look. "Oh for god's sake. I told you I had to pick up Sherry."

"I'm not sitting back here with her."

"It'll only be for _five minutes_."

Wesker stared her down while William flitted nervously from side to side, unsure of where to sit. Annette pinched the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger before finally sighing.

"What, do you _want_ to ride shotgun up here with me? Because I'm certainly not letting you drive _my_ car. Not with only one arm. Sit up here, sit back there, or walk home, pal. Those are your choices."

Wesker took the time to consider it before deciding that while sitting next to a crying child would be, in all likelihood, about as enjoyable as sitting next to Annette, it was unlikely that the woman would engage in drooling or vomiting or whatever other disgusting habits underdeveloped humans were prone to indulge in. Pushing William out of the way, he wrenched open the passenger door and threw himself down, jacking back the seat for maximum legroom. Annette waited for William to slip into the back seat before putting the car in reverse and pulling out of the lot.

"Soooo..." Birkin began, as Wesker sat rigidly in place and glared at the trees whipping past his window, "the subject. Is this something that we're never going to discuss, or...?"

"Curare. It was the goddamn curare," Wesker finally replied. "Satisfied?"

"Ah." Birkin leaned back in his seat, tapping his chin thoughtfully.

"Curare?" Annette repeated, incredulous. She nearly drove through a stop sign and had to throw on the brakes, earning herself a black glare from the blond at her side. "Where in the world did you find curare?"

"The lab," Wesker drawled, as though it should have been obvious.

"You know, I think I would've gone with an organophosphate," Birkin replied.

Wesker glanced at him through the rear-view mirror. "Do you recall what happened to that hunter?" he reminded him. "Curare has always been more predictable."

"Hmm," William mused. "I suppose you're right about that."

"Why would—" Annette was cut off when the car behind them honked; once she'd appeased the tailgater by accelerating through the intersection, she continued. "Why do you have _curare_ in the lab?"

It was William who answered. "What better way to test our B.O.W.s' durability? All of our weapons have resistance to one or more poisons, but to this day nothing's ever passed the curare test. Nothing with a beating heart, anyways. It's as good a fail-safe as any, really."

"Seems impractical," Annette commented.

"You'd be dead without it," Wesker pointed out.

"Maybe..." She took the car through a few more lights, deeper into the outer perimeter of Raccoon City. "But why didn't I ever know about this toxic stockpile of yours?"

"It isn't something to be advertised. Our colleagues would already kill for a chance to get a hold of our research," Wesker commented. "It would hardly do to give them the tools for the job."

"Good point," she ceded.

There was silence for a while, until William sighed noisily and shifted restlessly in his seat, his attention fluttering between the passing scenery and whatever thoughts were rolling through his head. He sighed again, and Wesker shot him a look full of annoyance. When he began to tap a foot against the back of Annette's seat, even Annette had had enough. "What is the matter with you?"

"I _need_ to get back to my cultures," he grumbled.

"Spencer's reopening the lab tomorrow," Annette reminded him.

William sighed and threw his head back, Adam's apple bobbing as he stared up at the ceiling. "I can't wait that long," he groaned. "It's already been a month..."

"Well, you don't have a choice." Annette gave Wesker a disparaging look. "He wanted to bring them home, did you know that? As if I was going to let him bring anything related to T anywhere near Sherry." Wesker simply stared at Annette, his expression telling her rather clearly that he did not care. With a slight roll of her eyes, she turned back to the road. "I can't wait for everything to get back to normal," she muttered. "Back to the days where I never have to deal with you."

_Normal? _Wesker had to wonder if that was even possible at that point. Could they really just forget everything that had just happened? Glancing over at Annette, whose biggest concerns at the moment seemed to be keeping the car on the road and Birkin sufficiently entertained to prevent him from dying of boredom, it certainly appeared that they'd already put most of the trial behind them. Maybe they'd start at a sudden sound, and maybe they'd warily give darkness a wide berth…for a while. How long would it take for that to grow old? How long would caution survive?

Not for very long, he suspected. They'd taken a few potshots from the subject near the end of their ordeal, but the major recipient of her abuse had been him, and only him. Annette had practically had a free pass; Birkin had been smacked around a bit. But the knife, the gun, the clinging undead…it would take a long time for some of those memories—particularly the painful ones—to fade. Meanwhile, William and Annette would settle back to their usual routine. Umbrella, as a company, would do the same—knowing Spencer as he did, Wesker was certain the old man was already trying to bury any evidence that might point back to the subject's escape.

In the end, he would be the only one to remember it at all. It struck him as being rather unfair, yet entirely, exhaustively inevitable. If there was any comfort to be gained from his trauma, it was the fact that he would not be caught unawares, not next time. For there would be a next time, that much was obvious in a place like the lab. Even supposing Umbrella did replace their dead rent-a-cops with actual trained forces capable of tackling a single subject, what good would it really do? He had to wonder what would have happened had security been competent in the first place. How would the subject have fared against those trained to handle such unusual circumstances? Which would triumph, the soldier or the weapon? It was an intriguing question, considering the line of Birkin's and his research, but save for the recent debacle they hadn't had an opportunity to really run that experiment.

Assuming that the weapons they were creating would do what they were supposed to—kill people, regardless of what defenses the opposition wielded—then he could be sure that whenever the next disaster inevitably occurred, he was going to be far from it. He wasn't sure how he would pull that off; after all, so long as he was anywhere near Umbrella, the danger was always there. Not to mention the fact that Birkin would more likely than not get caught up in the thick of it. _Again._

Then again…

Wesker shot Birkin another look through the rear-view mirror. The young man's gaze was unfocused, his fingers tapping out an impatiently erratic tattoo against his chin. Already his mind was back at the lab, the consequences of the subject's escape all but discarded to the furthest reaches of his memory. He took his survival for granted. Typical. Brow furrowing, Wesker flicked his eyes back to the road; next time, the fool was on his own. Wesker wasn't sticking his neck out again, consequences be damned.

Until the subject managed another rampage or some other inhuman creation decided to wreck havoc on their facilities, though, Wesker supposed Umbrella would go back to business as usual. Which meant returning to the lab—Birkin's lab, if his was truly still undergoing repairs—and continuing the same damn work they'd been doing for so long now, the same work that consistently churned out nothing but negative results. Given their latest hiccup with the subject, it was unlikely that trend was about to change.

Fantastic. Nothing like the sense of futility to really get the blood pumping. Wesker let the side of his head clunk against the window as he tried and failed to work up some enthusiasm for the coming days.

His arm hurt.

_Damn the Vicodin._

"What day is it?" he asked, to no one in particular, his tone mild despite his rather fervent hopes towards an agreeable answer. Which was anything, really, save for—

"Sunday," the Birkins replied in unison, William absently, Annette definitive.

Wesker sank down deeper into his seat, knees brushing up against the dash. _Of course. _That meant tomorrow was...

"I hate Mondays," he growled.

* * *

><p><strong>There! I was done with the story a long time ago, motivation-wise, so I'm glad this thing is off my plate now. Thanks for sticking with it, those of you that did. And now I have nothing else to offer you guys. Maybe some day I'll finish writing something of more substance...when I've got the time.<br>**

**Later.  
><strong>


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